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“‘Why, 


let him shoot my pop fur ? ’ ” 




5tORIE5 of the 



BY Frank h. Sweet. 
Illustrated by Noble Ives. 


NEW YORK 

McLOUGHLIN BROTHERS 


ilAHARY of CONGRESS 


I wo Cooles Received 
SEP 20 I90r 



(81^SS 


COPY B. 


Copyright, 1907, 

By McLoughlin Brothers 
New York 



PAGE 

Foreword - -- -- ---5 

The Little Confederate Courier - • • - - 11 

Three Little Refugees --...••34 
Robert Nix, Deserter -------56 

The Sentinel of Live Oaks ------ 80 

Lieutenant Stanton’s Escape - - - - - lOO 

The Federal Raiders - - - - - - -119 


How Captain Newt Reached the Union Lines - - 140 

Communicating with the Enemy - 


165 



' N our Civil W ar, boys 
- were accepted as re- 
cruits on both sides 
with the greater 
willingness be- 
cause experience 
had already 
shown that 
they made 
good sol- 
diers. There 
^ were forcible 
reasons why, as a general thing, they could 
go better than men more advanced in life. 
The great majority of those who were past 
the line of manhood had families depending 
upon them. 

These could scarcely be blamed for feeling 
as a German soldier did at Chancellorsville. 
When the rout of Howard’s corps was at its 

5 





6 


FOREWORD 


height, and the officers were attempting to 
arrest the tide of disaster, the man alluded to 
was sharply rebuked by his commander for 
running away. 

“ Sheneral,” he exclaimed, indignantly, ‘‘vat 
kind of a blace is this for a man mit a vife 
und sefen shildren!” 

The boys and young men under twenty 
years of age had fathers, mothers, brothers and 
sisters to whom they were bound by the 
strongest and most endearing ties; but it was 
nevertheless true, and they knew it, that they 
could be spared more easily than their married 
brothers. 

They started, as all the raw soldiers did, 
with great bulging knapsacks, crammed to the 
utmost with mementos of affection with which 
the loving ones at home had loaded them down, 
Mothers and sisters would not have done this 
had they imagined how many pounds every 
ounce on a soldier’s back seemed to weigh on 
the long, weary marches. 

The boys quickly learned to “shed” their 


FOREWORD 


7 


surplusage, and within three months from the 
time they entered the service half of them 
abandoned the knapsack altogether. They wore 
their blouses and trousers until they had an 
opportunity to draw new ones. If they had 
a change of under-garments they carried them 
in their blankets, which were twisted into a 
roll, tied at the ends like old-fashioned dough- 
nuts, and thrown over the head from one 
shoulder to the opposite hip. 

Then there were the muskets, the belt with 
cartridge-box and bayonet-scabbard, the haver- 
sack with three days’ rations, and the canteen 
full of water. The soldier was often required 
to carry a hundred pounds of heavy ball car- 
tridge — forty in the box and the rest in pockets 
or haversack, as he might choose. 

Besides these there were an overcoat, a 
rubber blanket or “ponche,” which was in- 
valuable in wet weather, and half of a shelter 
or “pup” tent. By the time a boy had 
carried all these twenty miles in a day, or 
perhaps thirty miles under the stress of an 


8 


FOREWORD 


emergency, he knew what it was to be tired, 
as he never did while hoeing corn or making 
hay. 

How every bone and muscle and tendon 
ached, and how keen was the pain from the 
blisters upon his tender feet! What a blessed 
relief it was, at the end of the day’s tramp, 
to throw off the accoutrements, bathe the feet 
in a stream, and then drop upon the ground 
to rest! 

It was such a life as this that soon made 
veterans and heroes of the boys, and the heroes 
were pretty evenly distributed on both sides. 
The hero in blue and the hero in gray were 
very much alike, and but for the difference in 
the color of their uniforms might well have 
been chumming together under the same tent. 

In the following tales I have taken the blue 
and gray impartially. They all fought with 
the same bravery, the same convictions. 
Young Lane’s heart was gray, though his 
father’s was blue, and he risked and gave his 
life cheerfully for what he thought was right. 


FOREWORD 


9 


even as did his father. And so in ‘‘The 
Sentinel at Live Oaks,” “ Communicating with 
the Enemy,” and the other stories, the blue 
and gray, watched, waited, suffered and en- 
dured, with equal courage and devotion. 

After all these years we can love one as the 
other, sympathize with the hopes and admire 
the pluck and steadfastness of purpose of both 
the boys from the North and the boys from 
the South; for they were one, with only a 
difference of opinion. 

Frank H. Sweet. 



1 


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T TELLO, my little man!” 

JTT “Hello!” 

“Where’re you going?” 

“ T’ that house thar.” 

A mounted officer in gray uniform, at the 
head of half a dozen troopers, was speaking 
with a boy eleven or twelve years old, whom 
he had met walking along a path by the side 
of the road. The time was at the close of a 
Southern winter, in 186 — , and the location was 
in a “border” State. 

The child was small for his age, but sturdy. 

On his head was an old straw hat, through 

which the hair peeped in places. He wore a 

short jacket, out at the elbows, and trousers 

rolled up at the bottom. Several little toes 
11 


12 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

thrust themselves through cracks in his shoes, 
and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. 
Despite his unseasonable apparel, the child did 
not seem to be cold. He was ruddy as an 
apple. 

“Where do you live?” asked the officer, 
a lieutenant, after surveying the little figure 
contemplatively. The boy turned around and 
pointed to a house on an eminence in the 
direction fi’om which he had come. 

“Is your father Union or Confederate?” 

“Union.” 

The officer scowled. During the Civil War 
the Southern troops were far more bitter 
against the Union men of the South than 
toward Northern soldiers. 

“ I ain’t no Union man, though,” added 
the boy, thrusting his hands into his pockets, 
planting his legs firmly at an angle, and look- 
ing up at the soldiers resolutely. “I’m a 
rebel.” 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 13 

There was a burst of laughter from the 
troop at his implied defiance. 

“What’s your father’s name?” 

“Tom Lane, and mine’s Tom Lane, too.” 

The officer turned his head and glanced mean- 
ingly at a sergeant who was close behind him. 

“ Is your father at home? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“When will he be at home?” 

“ I dunno.” The boy knit his brows. Then, 
with a quick change of interest and expression, 
he asked, “Whar you-uns a-goen’?” 

The officer smiled. “ Where are you going, 
my lad? ” 

“ Over thar.” He pointed with his finger. 

“Oh yes, I forgot. And what are you 
going to do over there? ” Tom colored. “Oh, 
I aint a-goin’ to do nothin’ but leave sump’n’ 
in the post-office on the fence.” 

The “post-office” was a box with a slit in 
the top which had been put up for the pur- 


14 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

pose of children’s correspondence. The officer 
noticed that the chubby hand grasped a bit of 
folded paper. 

“Sergeant,” said the officer, speaking low. 
“Tom Lane’s the man we are after. This is 
his boy. We must try and find out if Lane 
is at home, or where he is. I’ve orders to 
take him, dead or alive.” 

“My little man,” he continued to the boy, 
“will you answer some questions for the good 
of your country?” 

“I reckon so.” 

“Then tell me where your father is.” 

“He aint none o’ us; he’s Union.” 

“Yes, but where is he ? ” 

“My pop aint got nothin’ to do with 
you-uns. Ast me some other things, ’n’ I’ll 
tell ’em.” 

The officer was baffled. Indeed, he was ashamed 
of his work in trying to induce a boy to betray 
his father. The lad started on. The sergeant 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 15 

was about to ride forward to stop him, but 
the officer ordered him back. The troop rode 
on to a cross-road which led to a wood to the 
right; then turned down this road and entered 
the wood. Finding a spring of good water, 
they went into bivouac. A man was 
detailed to ride after the boy, and secure the 
missive he intended to drop in the letter-box. 

The soldiers picketed their horses and cooked 
their supper. While they were eating, the 
man who had been sent for the letter came 
in. The officer unfolded the little scrap of 
paper, and read this scrawl in a child’s hand: 

March Thurd. 

Dere Maggy. I want you fur to be mi 
swethart. Wen I git a man I agoen fur to 
be a sojer. Mi pop is agoen to bring me a 
gun. He’s comen hoam tomorrer. Maw she 
sais Im to little fur a gun but I reckon I’ll 
git it anyway. Yures trewly. 

Tom Lane Junyer. 


16 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

The officer spelled out this communication 
with some difficulty, and put it in his pocket. 
It contained all the information he wanted. 
He had now nothing to do but to wait in 
order to capture Tom Lane, guerilla. 

The next morning the boy was playing in 
the road not far fi’om his father’s house. A 
Confederate officer, with stars on his coat- 
collar, rode up, followed by his staff, and asked 
him some questions about the topography of 
the surrounding country, which the boy 
answered promptly. The general praised him 
for a smart boy, and then said, ‘*You seem 
to know the country pretty well. Do you 
know the road to J — ?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

‘‘Can you ride?” 

“Riie! Reckon I can ride I Ain’t done 
nothin’ else sence I was little.” 

‘‘ How would you like to carry a message 
for me? ” 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 17 


“Y’ain’t no Yank, are y’ ?” 

“Fm a Confederate officer.’’ 

“I’ll do anythin’ for our sojers,” said Tom, 
with a proud flash in his eye. 

“ Then come with me, ” and without ceremony, 
the child was put on the back of a led horse be- 
side a cavalryman, and rode with the general 
and his staff to headquarters. When they 
arrived at camp, the general turned the child 
over to an aide, but in half an hour ordered him 
to be brought to his tent. 

“Now, my boy, said the officer, looking in- 
tently into the child’s honest brown eyes, “I’m 
going to send you on an important errand. 
Though you are a boy, you must have the cou- 
rage of a man.” 

The boy made no reply. He was looking 
straight at the general. “I want you to take 
this” — ^he held out something that looked like a 
pill. “ It’s a roll of tissue paper in tin foil, and 
there’s a message written on it. Take it to 


18 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

General — , commanding the Confederate force 
at J — . You’ll have to go through the Yankee 
pickets. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“General,” interposed the aide, impatiently, 
“this is a duty for me, not for this child.” 

“How could you pass the enemy’s pickets?” 
demanded the general sharply. Then, without 
permitting a reply, he went on giving the boy 
his instructions. 

“You are so young that I think the pickets 
will let you go where you please — ” 

“I’m twelve,” interrupted Tom. 

“Are you? Well, you must keep up a stout 
heart, and not look frightened. ” 

“ I reckon I won’t be scared consid’able. ” 
“Take this.” The general put his finger 
into the pocket of the boy’s jacket to see if it 
was whole; then rolling the pellet in a piece of 
newspaper, he slipped it into his pocket. “If 
you must lose it, swallow it.” 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 19 


The boy looked surprised, but said, “I will!” 
resolutely. 

The general took the little fellow by the hand. 
It was a curious contrast, the grizzly-bearded 
Southern commander looking down from his 
six feet of height into the boy’s little round face, 
and holding the chubby fist in his knotty hand. 
He was loath to relinquish it; loath to let the boy 
go. He was about to send a child on a perilous 
errand. He could have sent a man without 
compunction, even if he knew the chances were 
nine in ten that he would be shot; but this boy — 

“Go!” he said suddenly, and motioned the 
aide to take him away. Another moment and 
he could not have done it. 

Tom Lane, Junior, who advanced to the 
dignity of a Confederate courier, was placed on a 
good-natured horse which was to carry him on 
his journey. The aide took him to the Con- 
federate picket line, and started him off up the 
road. He stood looking at the fiaxen-haired 


20 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

urchin, whose little legs stuck out on either side 
over the round flanks of the horse at an obtuse 
angle, wishing that he might call him back. He 
watched the boy till he rounded a curve in the 
road. The young courier turned and smiled; 
a smile of innocence, of courage, of conscious 
pride in the work to be done. In another 
moment he was lost to the oflScer’s view. 

That day passed and the next. The com- 
mander, who was awaiting the outcome of his 
plan of communication, did little but pace anx- 
iously back and forth before his tent. Though 
abrupt in manner, he was usually singularly 
kind to those under his orders. Now he seemed 
the very incarnation of military severity. When 
twenty-four hours had passed and his courier 
did not return, he became so crusty that no 
member of his staff cared to approach him. 

On the second evening at dusk the pickets 
heard the clattering of a horse’s hoofs on the pike. 
A horse came in sight, and on his back was the 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 21 


little courier, hatless, sway- 
ing in the saddle, but riding 
at a gallop. The soldiers 
grasped the bridle and 
stopped him. 

“Take me to the gen- 
eral, quick!’’ 

He was deathly pale 
and the blood trickled down 
his side. They led the horse 
toward headquarters; a man 
walking on each side to 
sustain the boy in the 
saddle. As they proceeded 
the courier told his story in detached sentences. 

He had found no diflSculty in getting within 
the Union lines, but had been obliged to try 
several times before he could succeed in leaving 
them. He reached the Confederate Army late 
at night, delivered his message, and was well 
cared for by order of the general commanding. 



The Little Courier 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

The next morning a reply to the message he 
had brought was given him, and he started back. 
Again he passed free into the Union lines, and 
again he found difficulty in leaving the lines on 
the opposite side. At last, getting some distance 
beyond a picket who was watching him, he 
resolved to make a dash for it. “I thought he 
wouldn’t shoot me,” said Tom, “‘case I war 
so little. I reckon he couldn’t see who I war fur 
the trees ’n’ things.” 

“Where are you hit ?” asked one of the men. 

“Here.” He put his hand to his left side 
below his heart. “Go on, quick! I’m weaken- 
in’.” 

When the party arrived in front of the tent 
they found the general still walking back and 
forth in deep anxiety. When he saw his little 
messenger sitting on the horse, pale and bleeding, 
he strode up to him and brushing away the men, 
without a word took him in his arms, carried 
him into his tent and laid him on his own camp 
cot. Then he bent over him and groaned. 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 23 


The boy took from his mouth a pellet similar 
to the one he had carried on his journey outward 
and held it to the general. The soldier took it, 
but for a few moments was too much moved to 
open it. Then suddenly remembering its im- 
portance, he unrolled it and read its contents. 

“Good!’’ he exclaimed, his face momentarily 
brightening. Calling for his chief of staff, he 
ordered that the men be put in readiness to 
march at a moment’s notice. This done he 
seemed to forget everything but the wounded 
boy. 

“My brave boy!” he said, kneeling by him 
and putting his arms about him. “We owe you 
everything. You can’t be much hurt. You 
must not be much hurt. You must get well and 
I will put you on my staff. You shall be a little 
captain. You have accomplished more for the 
cause than I ever have.” 

“A cap’n ?” exclaimed the boy. 

“Yes, a captain. Anything. You shall al- 
ways be with me.” 


24 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

A transient look of pleasure passed over the 
boy’s pale face. Then he seemed to remember 
something. ‘‘You better send me hoam. My 
pop won’t know whar I ben. ” 

“I’ll take you myself. Orderly, get an am- 
bulance! Bring bandages! Be quick! Why 
doesn’t the surgeon come?” 

The ambulance came, and the surgeon came, 
but when he looked at the child he shook his 
head 

“He will live, doctor?” asked the general, 
as though commanding the surgeon to save the 
boy’s life. 

Again the surgeon shook his head. The 
general turned abruptly away to hide his emotion. 

“I want to go fin: to see my pop,” said the 
boy, feebly. 

The commander turned and took him in his 
arms, carried him out to the ambulance and 
gently laid him in it. The surgeon got up on 
the seat with the driver, and the general sat at 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 25 

the rear end with his feet on the step, while aides 
and orderlies followed mounted, an orderly 
leading the general’s horse. And thus they 
went slowly to the boy’s home. 

When they arrived they found the house 
surrounded by Confederate cavalrymen. The 
lieutenant the boy had met two days before 
came up as the ambulance drove up to the door. 
That morning before daylight, he and his men 
had surprised Tom Lane and half a dozen Union 
guerillas who were sleeping there. A fight had 
ensued. Tom Lane was killed, and his men — 
three of them badly wounded — ^were prisoners. 

The cloud on the general’s brow darkened as 
he heard the story. He had brought a death- 
wound to a child, and now he was bringing that 
child to a home where lay the dead body of his 
father, killed by the men whose cause his son 
had served so nobly — ^killed by his own order. 

The general lifted his charge tenderly from 
the ambulance and carried him into the house 


26 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

of mourning. The wife and mother were there, 
with several of the neighbors who had come to 
be with her in her affliction. She sat in a rocking 
chair weeping. 

“Maw,’" said the boy, excitedly, “Tm a-goen" 
fur to be a cap’n!” 

In the gray of the morning the woman had 
seen her husband shot down before her eyes. 
In the twilight of evening she saw her boy car- 
ried in, bleeding, with death written in his pale 
face and wild eye. The double affliction over- 
came her. She swooned and was taken to an 
adjoining room. 

The general laid his light burden on a sofa. 
The boy caught sight of a little girl about his 
own age who had come to the house with her 
mother. 

“Mag,” he said, “did yo" git my letter 

“No,” said Mag, “I didn’t git no letter, but I 
seen one o’ them sojers take sump’n out’n the 
box. ” 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 27 


The general glanced sharply at the lieutenant. 
The young officer took a crumpled bit of paper- 
from his pocket and handed it to the commander, 
who was about to transfer it to little Maggie, 
when the lieutenant whispered to him that it 
contained the information by which they had 
caught the Unionists. 

The general sat mute, with the unopened 
paper between his fingers. A reproof for his 
subordinate was on his tongue, but he did not 
speak it. In warfare it is essential to examine 
private papers. The boy who had done them 
so signal a service had been robbed of his childish 
scrawl, and the information it contained had 
been used to surprise that boy’s father. With 
bowed head the soldier handed the paper to the 
little girl. 

At this moment the wounded boy caught 
sight of his father lying stiff and stark on the 
bed. 

“Pop!” he exclaimed, with a moan, “pop!” 


28 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER ' 

He had never seen death, but something told 
him that this was death. With difficulty he 
raised himself and sat up on the lounge. 

“Did you shoot my pop.^^” he asked, looking 
with his great, honest eyes at the lieutenant. 
Without a word the officer turned as one might 
turn from a storm of bullets, and left the house. 
The boy fastened a reproachful gaze on the 
general. 

“What dy let him shoot my pop fur ?’* 

“My boy — my little hero,” began the soldier 
— ^he could not go on. How could he make a 
child understand the necessities of war ? Chival- 
rous war! that permitted him to read a child’s 
letter and kill the child’s father, who was on the 
opposite side. 

“I didn’t do nothen to you-uns. What d’ 
you-uns want t’ go ’n’ kill my pop fur ?” moaned 
the boy. 

Little Maggie was standing by, looking on 
with childish wonder. 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 29 

‘‘Mag,” said Tom, “I writ y’ that letter. I 
writ it all myself, all on’t. The sojers tooken 
it, I reckon. ” 

The general drew the girl up to the lounge, 
and put her hand in that of the boy. The two 
children remained in this position to the end. 
The boy soon began to wander. He was riding 
with the paper pellet in his mouth; he was pass- 
ing the pickets; he was conversing with oflScers 
and soldiers. All the while the general was 
trying to soothe him, smoothing back the un- 
combed locks from his forehead, or pouring a 
little water between his lips. 

Suddenly the boy sat up. 

“I’m a-goen’ fur to be a cap’n!” he shouted, 
then fell back dead. 

The next afternoon the army, beginning a 
movement for which the little courier had paved 
the way, had struck its tents and was marching 
along the road that led past the Lane house. 
As the head of the column emerged from a wood. 


30 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

the men saw a funeral procession, composed of 
some officers, soldiers and a few country people, 
leave the house and march along to an en- 
closed lot in a field near by, — the family burial- 
place. 

Two coffins,, the one but half the size of the 
other,, were borne by Confederate soldiers. 
They contained the bodies of Tom Lane, father, 
and Tom Lane, son, the one of the Union, and 
the other of the Confederacy. Directly behind 
walked the general, then a company of soldiers, 
—a captain’s escort; and next a group of neigh- 
bors. 

The procession moved slowly onward to the 
enclosure in which a grave had been dug. The 
two coffins were lowered, and laid side by side 
in the one grave. The general, who held in his 
hands a bundle of green sprigs, cast them into 
the grave. The earth was shovelled in and a 
volley fired by the soldiers over the grave. 

By this time the head of the advancing column 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 31 

had reached the burial-place, where the general 
was standing with uncovered head, while the 
last shovelfuls of earth were being thrown upon 
the grave. The men of an army are quick to 
gather news, and not a soldier but knew already 
the story of the two Lanes. 

As the column marched by, the men of the 
leading company, seeing their general standing 
with head uncovered, raised their hats. The 
action was followed by the next and the next 
company, and was taken up by regiment after 
regiment, troop after troop, battery after battery; 
the twelve thousand men passed and uncovered. 
Then the little group of mourners and spectators 
disbanded, and the general was joined by his 
staff, mounted his horse and rode in the direction 
the troops were marching. 

That night in bivouac the following order was 
promulgated : 

“1. Captain Thomas Lane, Junior, aged twelve 
years, is announced as aide-de-camp on the 


32 THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 

staff of the general commanding, and will be 
obeyed and respected as such. 

“ 2 . The customary mourning will be observed 
by the oflScers and men of this command for 
thirty days for Captain Thomas Lane, Junior, 
of the staff of the general commanding, who died 
gallantly in the service of the Confederate States. 
His commission has been applied for and will be 
forwarded to his family.’’ 

The next morning, before daylight, the Con- 
federate armies which had become separated 
and liable to capture in detail, formed a junction, 
and together attacked and turned the Union 
left. 

On a mantel in the house where the two Lanes 
died is a frame containing a captain’s commis- 
sion. 

On the day, each year, sacred to the memory 
of those who fell in that direful contest a third 
of a century ago, the grave which holds the father 
and son is covered with flowers, brought by the 


THE LITTLE CONFEDERATE COURIER 33 


neighbors for miles around. Among these 
flowers on every anniversary is a wreath com- 
posed of buds of red roses. These wreaths are 
all sent by the same person. Though no name 
comes with them, it is well understood that they 
are from the man who sacrificed a child to 
save an army. 



SHORT procession of roughly-dressed 



/m mountaineers, together with a few sad- 
faced women, came slowly and quietly down the 
rocky and narrow trail leading from a little 
group of gloomy and stunted pines, to a dozen 
or more small log houses, half-way between the 
summit of the mountain and the narrow gulch 
below. Some of the men wore scarcely recog- 
nizable portions of gray uniform, which, scanty 
and dilapidated as they were, still hinted of the 
Confederate army. 

Only a few hours before these men had been 
skulking up the slope, dodging from tree to tree 
and rock to rock, seeking as they would a wild 
beast a man who had been a friend and neighbor. 
When the war broke out this man had slipped 


34 



THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


35 


away and joined the Union army. A year later 
he was wounded, and came home to visit his 
family. But he came by stealth, for he knew 
his half-guerilla neighbors, and that their hate 
would not be bounded by law or remembrance 
of former friendship. Now he was lying 'dead 
across his own threshold; and his wife, who had 
thrown herself in front in a vain hope to shelter 
him, was lying dead by his side. 

Such news travels quickly even in the moun- 
tain wilds, and almost before the echoes of the 
fatal volley had died away there were hushed 
comments of it between the doorways and win- 
dows of the cabins below, and some of the sad- 
faced women were hurrying up the slope. Now 
that their hate was satisfied it was forgotten, 
and only the neighborliness of their victims was 
remembered. Besides, up at the cabin were 
three young girls, one of them scarcely more 
than a baby; and before the estrangements of the 
war the two older girls had been general favorites 
on the slope. 


36 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


But now the girls would have none of their 
help, or their offers of sympathy. Huldah, who 
was fourteen and the oldest, stood beside the 
forms of her parents, her eyes dry and flashing. 
Bertha, twelve years of age, was crying softly, 
but between her sobs her eyes flashed as scorn- 
fully as her sister’s. Six year old Nell was lying 
at full length, her face buried in her mother’s 
dress. They would bury their own dead, Hul- 
dah said with steady voice ; and the former 
neighbors, after standing about for some minutes, 
turned and walked slowly down the path, all 
the fierceness now gone from the men’s eyes. 
It was an accident about the woman, they told 
each other many times in apologetic moroseness. 
They were not woman shooters. 

The morning after their dead were buried, 
and buried by their own hands, Huldah and 
Bertha sat before the fire and soberly discussed 
their future, while Nell still slept peacefully on 
her bunk filled with pine boughs and bear skins 
in a comer of the cabin. 


THREE UTTLE REFUGEES 


37 


Their lot could not have been cast in a drearier 
or more unpromising place than Wildcat Slope, 
half-way^ up the barren side of a mountain, ten 
miles from the nearest town, and ten times as 
far from the nearest railroad, and with no neigh- 
bors but the slayers of their parents. They had 
few possessions, a dilapidated wagon with a 
canvas top, in which they had wandered here 
from Texas ten years before, an old horse in 
keeping with the wagon, some worn household 
and cooking utensils, and a few silver dollars 
in Huldah’s pockets. But on the other hand, 
they had browsed through life upon almost 
nothing, and could live where many would 
starve. 

“ We can’t stay here, ” said Huldah decidedly. 

“I don’t want to stay,” replied Bertha. 

“Nor I,” said Huldah. “We’ll go back to 
Texas, where mother lived, or to some other 
place, — anywhere from this mountain. ” 

“How ?” with some animation. 


38 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


“In the wagon. It’s the only way. We 
haven’t any money to go on the cars, even if we 
could get to a railroad.” 

“Y — es, if only old Charley will hold out to 
carry us.” 

Old Charley was a bony and feeble horse, 
tied at that moment to a wheel of the wagon, 
outside. He had accompanied the Haydens in 
all their wanderings, resting with them a year 
in Texas among Mrs. Hayden’s people, and then 
drawing the wagon across state after state to 
this bleak mountain side, for no reason appar- 
ently save to please the wanderer’s erratic fancy 
and because the mountain side offered good 
hunting. Poorly fed and seldom housed from 
summer rains and winter snows, old Charley’s 
hardships had been many. 

By nine o’clock the next morning Huldah had 
old Charley hitched to the wagon, in which 
their few possessions had been placed. An 
hour later Huldah drove the horse around a 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


39 


sharp curve in the mountain road, and they saw 
the log houses and bleak slope no more. 

A cold wind was coming up from the gulch, 
and there were a few fine flakes of snow whirling 
in the air, but the young emigrants hoped to 
find it warmer with each descending mile, as the 
autumn had been an unusually mild one. 

As they drove slowly along, with little Nell 
seated between them wrapped in a great bear 
skin, Huldah and Bertha discussed their pros- 
pects. 

They were strangely ignorant regarding the 
names and whereabouts of any of their relatives. 
Their information was confined to vague and 
indefinite remembrances of the fact that ‘‘ma 
had two sisters somewhere in Texas,” with whom 
they had stayed before coming to the west 
Tennessee mountains; and pa had a brother in 
Iowa. But no letters had ever been exchanged, 
and ten years had passed since they left Texas. 

But Huldah was a hopeful, courageous girl. 


40 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


and hardships had made Bertha old and wise 
beyond her years. 

“We’ll get along some way, I reckon,” she 
said bravely. 

“Yes,” Huldah agreed, “We’ll keep on toward 
Texas, an’ if we can’t find some place where we 
can get work ’fore we reach there, we’ll try to 
hunt up ma’s sisters. We’ll get along some 
way.” 

So they journeyed on down mountain slopes 
and through long canons until they came out 
upon the level country. 

It was now November. The season had been 
a warm one. The land before them was free 
from snow, the days were sunny, and the nights 
not too cold for them to sleep comfortably in the 
wagon. So they went forward, a forlorn little 
company. Their well-nigh disabled wagon, the 
horse’s too prominent bones, and the peculiari- 
ties of their appearance and method of travel 
excited both interest and amusement in the towns 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


41 


through which they 
passed. Occasion- 
ally they met strag- 
gling parties from 
the Confederate 
army, (and once 
were stopped by 
Union soldiers. 

Usually at such 
times the wagon 
was searched, but 
none of the con- 
tents were ever 
molested. The 
artlessness of the 

children, their “So they journeyed on.** 

pathetic story, portions of which came out in 
the conversation, and the uncertainty of their 
future and vague destination, all tended to make 
friends of those who had only felt suspicion. 

The old horse grew bonier and more feeble as 



42 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


the journey grew longer. They had to travel 
very slowly. There were some days when old 
Charley was too lame and tired to carry them 
on at all. On such days they had a dreary 
time, sitting about the camp-fire or in the wagon 
while the December wind swept around. 

Their small sum of money grew smaller from 
day to day, as they purchased the food they must 
have at the widely scattered villages through 
which they passed on their journey, — ^whither 
they knew not. 

At each village Huldah now tried to find 
employment for them, always unsuccessfully. 
But often, when they encamped near a town or 
farm-house, curious-minded but kind-hearted 
men and women would come out to the wagon, 
and the children went on their way with gifts of 
food and clothing, and often they found shelter 
at night and on stormy days in hospitable 
cabins or farm-houses. 

It was the day before Christmas that they 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 43 

found themselves facing a strong, cold wind 
from the North, as they drove toward a little 
town far in the distance, but plainly visible 
across thfe flat country. The wind flapped the 
ragged cover of the wagon as it rattled along 
over the frozen ground, and late in the day flakes 
of snow began flying in at the open front of the 
wagon. 

Old Charley walked slowly and unsteadily 
along, while Huldah sat on the front seat holding 
the lines in her chilled hands. Bertha and 
little Nell sat on the straw in the back part of the 
wagon, warmly wrapped in bear and deer skins, 
of which, fortunately, they had a good supply. 

Nell was a light-hearted little thing, even amid 
her dismal surroundings, and once her curly 
head, tied up in a red nubia, appeared above 
the mass of robes, among which she sat, as she 
said, ‘‘Say, Huldah.?’’ 

“Well.?” 


“Is to-morrow Christmas?” 


44 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


“Yes.” 

“Oh, goody!” 

Huldah and Bertha were silent. There were 
tears in both their eyes, for, poor as their parents 
had always been, they had always made much 
of Christmas, “saving up” for it for weeks be- 
forehand. Only last Christmas they had had 
a tree, the memory of which made little Nell’s 
eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow, although it 
had been only a poor little tree, after all, strung 
with pop-corn, and having fewer things on it 
than many children find in one of their stockings. 

With the tree still in mind, Nell asked, “We’ll 
have another tree, won’t we, Huldah 
“I— I— I’m afraid not.” 

“Nor nothing in my stockings.^” 

Huldah thought of the three or four pieces of 
silver in her pocket. It was the last of their 
money, but she said, as cheerily as she could, 
“Yes, yes, little one. You shall have some- 
thing in your stocking, anyhow.” 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


45 


“Can’t we have even a teenty-tonty tree?” 

“I’ll see, dear.” 

“Ain’t there any old Mr. Santa Claus in this 
country?” 

“I guess so.” 

“Well, you must send him word, and tell him 
I want a tree, a big tree, with forty thousand 
bushels of things on it, and I shall go right to 
work now and pray real hard for what I want 
most. What shall I pray for for you, Huldah ?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“What, not even some molasses candy?” 

“Oh yes. I’d like that.” 

“Well, I’ll ask for that for you, and for a 
lovely blue silk dress and a perlanno to make 
music on.” 

There was silence for a long time after that. 
The short, dull day was ending in gloomy dark- 
ness when they reached the outskirts of the little 
town. They unhitched old Charley on the low 
bank of a little stream a short distance from the 


46 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


nearest house. The wind had gone down. A 
light snow was falling, and it was warmer. 

Huldah built a fire, and while she went to the 
town for a loaf of bread Bertha made tea. 
After their frugal supper was eaten there was 
nothing left for them to do but to “snuggle up,” 
as Nell said, in the bear skins and straw in the 
wagon and go to sleep. 

Before she lay down for the night the little 
girl went to the end of the wagon and pinned 
a pair of ragged stockings to the outside of the 
wagon cover. 

“There now,” she said, when this was done 
to her satisfaction, “it won’t be the leastest bit 
of trouble for Santy Claus to stop here on his 
way to town, and he can fill my stockings without 
even getting out of his sleigh. ” 

Huldah and Bertha sat silent by the camp- 
fire, looking at the pair of empty stockings 
dangling from the pins that held them. Sudden- 
ly Huldah said, “We ain’t got but forty cents 
in the world, Bertha, but I’d rather spend it all 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


47 


than have her get up in the morning and find 
them stockings empty.’’ 

“So would I,” replied Bertha, promptly. 
“I couldn’t bear to have her find nothing at all 
in them.” 

“I reckon she’d sleep sound enough and not 
waken if you and I went up into the town and 
bought her something for her stockings.” 

“Oh, yes, she never opens her eyes after she 
once gets to sleep, and there’s no danger of her 
coming to harm here.” 

So, after seeing that Nell was well covered 
under the robes, and the wagon cover closely 
drawn in front and behind, Huldah and Bertha 
walked up the one unlighted street of the dreary 
little town, in which there were no signs of 
Christmas cheer. There were but two or three 
stores, and the Christmas toys on sale were few 
and poor. But they seemed grand and abundant 
to these two girls, who had lived all their lives 
on the plains and on mountain slopes. 

They bought a large yellow orange and a tin 


48 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


lamb on wheels, and then went on up the street 
until they came to a small wooden church in 
which there was a Christmas tree for the children 
of the town. A woman about to enter saw them 
trying to peep in at one of the frosty windows, 
and asked them to go in with her. They shyly 
accepted the invitation. 

They were mistaken in their theory that no 
one would go near the wagon while they were 
gone. Hardly had they entered the town, when 
there came riding swiftly and boisterously across 
the fields a hilarious company of half a dozen 
horsemen of the class which, while nominally 
belonging to the Southern army, were in reality 
guerillas and “slip-law’’ robbers of the worst 
type. The semi-military uniforms they wore 
were but cloaks for their depredations. Es- 
pecially when they had a person of Union 
principles in their power was their ferocity 
shown, as though that might strengthen their 
position. 



She pinned a pair of her ragged stockings to the outside of the 

wagon cover. 




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4 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


49 


The men who now came riding across the 
fields had not the best of intentions in visiting 
the little town. There was a saloon of the 
lowest class just outside the village. The riders 
intended to make a visit to this saloon, — after 
that no one, not even themselves, could say what 
form their festivities would take. 

The old wagon with its flapping cover attracted 
their attention as they came galloping along. 
They reined up their horses before it and began 
joking about its dilapidated appearance, the 
still burning camp-fire revealing its rickety and 
ragged condition. 

“That’d be a gay old rig to ride up an’ down 
Fifth Avenue in, wouldn’t it.^” said one of the 
men. 

“It’s seen mighty tough times, that’s sure,” 
said another. “Wonder where the owner of 
such an elegant outfit is.^ If he ain’t careful 
somebody’ll steal it. It ain’t safe to let valuables 
lie around loose in this country for — ^well. I’ll 
be everlastingly ding-fiddled — look there!” 


50 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


He pointed his whip at Nell’s stockings, as a 
sudden flame from the fire revealed them flap> 
ping in the breeze. “If some youngster ain’t 
hung up its stockings for Christmas!” 

The other men drew near. One or two of 
them dismounted, and one tall, lank man, older 
than his companions, took one of the stockings 
and felt of it, saying, “Well, old Santa Claus 
ain’t filled it yet, and I don’t reckon — hello!” 

He stepped back in surprise as a curly brown 
head was thrust from the rear of the wagon, and 
a childish voice said: 

“Are you Mister Santa Claus?” 

The men on the horses laughed, and one of 
them said, “She caught you that time. Cap.” 

“Well, who be you^ anyhow ?” asked the man 
addressed as Cap. 

“I’m Helen May Hayden.” 

“Oh, you be, be you? Where’s all your 
folks.” 

^I ain’t got none, only just Huldah and 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


51 


Bertha, and I s’pose they’ve gone off to hunt 
Santa Claus. Do you s’pose they’ll find him?’* 

“It’s hard telling whether they will or not. 
What if they don’t ?” 

The child’s lips quivered and her voice trem- 
bled as she said, “Then I s’pose my stockings 
’ll be empty in the morning, and they ain’t been 
empty a Christmas yet.” 

“Where’d you come from, anyhow?” 

“From the mountains. We’re Unions, and 
we’re running off.” 

“Unions, eh,” and there was a change in his 
voice. But only for a moment; the wistful, 
baby face was too appealing. 

“And your dad didn’t come with you?” 

“He couldn’t — they killed him.” 

“Nor your marm?” 

“She’s killed, too.” 

“And there ain’t nobody in the cart with 
you?” 

“No’m, nobody.” 


52 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


‘‘Who’s Huldah and Bertha?” 

“My two sisters — and they’re splendid. 
They'll find Santy Claus. Huldah’s got forty 
cents for him. I heard her tell Bertha so. ” 

“Oh, she has? Well, I guess you’d better 
crawl back there and snuggle down among the 
bed-clothes till they come back. That’s what 
you’d better do. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, mister; if you see Santy Claus 
you’ll tell him ’bout my stockings.?” 

“Oh yes. Good-night, and sleep tight.” 

“Good-night. I wish you a Merry Christ- 
mas. ” 

The men mounted their horses and rode away 
in the darkness, the tall man called Cap dashing 
silently on ahead of the others. 

When Huldah and Bertha returned they found 
little Nell sleeping as peacefully as when they 
left her. They put the orange into one stocking 
and the toy lamb into the other, together with a 
little bag of candy that had been given them 
at the church. 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 


53 


They climbed up into the wagon and were 
soon sleeping by Nell’s side — three homeless 
5^oung wayfarers under the Christmas skies. 

It was after ten o’clock when a man rode 
silently and slowly out from the town, casting 
half-furtive glances back, as if fearing he 
might be followed by some of the companions, 
who had long ago missed him from their revels 
in the saloon. He had heard one of them come 
to the door and call after him as he stole away, 
but they knew that he was a man whom it was 
best for t?hem not to follow, so they went back 
to their cups, expecting him to return soon. 

He rode straight to the wagon, dismounted, 
and stood for a moment listening near in the 
darkness, his arms and pockets full of bundles. 
He filled the little stockings to the top, and tied 
the other bundles to a wheel of the cart. Then 
he stood still for a few moments, his head bent 
forward and resting on the wagon wheel. 

A moment later he mounted his hone and 
rode a few rods in the direction of the town, — 


^4 THREE LITn.E REFUGEES 

t 

then, wheeling suddenly and furiously around, 
he dashed madly away in the darkness over the 
plain in the direction from whence he and his 
companions had come, while they waited in 
vain for his return. 

“I jest bet ye Cap’s went back to that there 
wagon,” said one of the men. “He’s a queer 
one, is Cap. It ain’t the first time I’ve knowed 
him to act queer after running across some 
little youngster, an’ I b’lieve there’s something 
in that story I’ve heered ’bout him once havin’ 
a little gal of his own, an’ her ma an’ her dyin’, 
an’ him bein’ reckless ever sence. He’ll be 
sober for six months now. He’s a queer one, 
anyhow. ” 

When morning came and Huldah climbed 
out of the wagon, she gazed in open-mouthed 
surprise at the stockings and the wagon wheel 
below them. In one stocking was the great 
doll she and Bertha had so wished they might 
buy the night before, and in one of the bundles 


THREE LITTLE REFUGEES 55 

were the dishes Bertha had said little Nell would 
“most go crazy over.’’ In the bottom of the 
stocking were twenty-five shining gold dollars 
in a buckskin purse, while in the bundles were 
many good and useful things. 

They had not had such a breakfast for months, 
and Huldah said she should be able to get up a 
“real Christmas dinner.” But in the midst of 
her preparations for it the good woman who had 
invited them to the church the night before, 
found her way down to the wagon and took 
them to her own comfortable little house, and 
that was the end of their wanderings for that 
winter. 

A place for Huldah was found in one of the 
stores, and the kindly disposed people of the 
town, with true Southern hospitality, helped 
them in so many ways that the hardships of the 
past were soon forgotten in what they regarded 
as the most wonderful prosperity of the present. 



I T was a rough cabin home, squatting, as if 
to hide its squalor, in a straggling grove of 
scrubby oaks. Its outside appearance denoted 
thriftless poverty. The tumble-down cow-sheds 
the dilapidated corn-crib, the broken fence, with 
its corners choked with briers, and the drag- 
ging gate, told of a shiftless master. 

Its interior, however, presented a different 
aspect. The rough board floor was scrubbed 
white; the scant furniture was scrupulously 
clean, while the pots and pans and the little 
store of crockery were as bright as soap and 
water and busy fingers could make them. 

The immaculate whiteness of the drapery, 
arranged with a certain grace, spoke as plainly 

56 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


57 


to the credit of the mistress, as the outside did to 
the discredit of the master. 

Sam Nix and his wife were an ill-mated pair. 
They had nothing in common, except the hard 
fortune that linked their lives together and 
poverty. He was hard, uncouth, cold; she, 
gentle, refined, and sweet. Not even in regard 
to their children were they sympathetic, for 
while she loved them both devotedly, and es- 
pecially her bright-eyed, manly boy, he cared 
hardly so much for his son as he did for his 
favorite hound. 

It was in the spring of 1863, the third year of 
the war. The first wild storm of passion that 
swept over the land had exhausted itself, and 
men, furiously blind before, had begun to real- 
ize the danger, the dread, and the horrors of 
war. 

Many men who in the delirium of a patriotic 
frenzy had rushed to the field, impatient of its 
tardy glories, had found the reality of its duties 


58 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


stern, unsentimental; and not a few, even of the 
bravest, were, to tell the truth, homesick. 

Among those whose devotion to his State was 
the first to take fire and the first to evaporate 
was one George Cahoule, a young man, the 
proud, petted son of a proud, but not wealthy 
father. 

From the time he could cry, his every whim, 
that the foolish fondness of his mother and the 
moderate means of his father could gratify, 
had been indulged. Accordingly, when, catch- 
ing something of the spirit of patriotism that 
excited the breasts of braver and better men, 
he offered to volunteer, as soft a place as possible 
was obtained for him. Not much could be done, 
however; only a non-commissioned officer’s 
berth was secured. But he took that, and in 
high feather marched away, a commissary- 
sergeant in the Thirty-Fourth Regiment of 
Ohio Volunteers, 

For a time he found life in the camp a pleasing 


EGBERT NIX, DESERTER 


59 


routine of light duties. But after a while the 
restraint of the service began to vex him, and be 
longed for the abounding freedom of home. 

Then came the battle of Stone River, and 
though he was safe in the rear with the cooking 
utensils, an erratic shell came screeching through 
the tree-tops dangerously near his precious head, 
and he wrote at once to his mother to arrange, 
if possible, for his discharge. 

“This thing is getting to be a bore, any way,’’ 
he wrote, “and is no longer a place for a gentle- 
man. There are poor trash enough to do the 
fighting; they are fit for nothing else, and I don’t 
see the use of a gentleman wasting his time or 
endangering his health for nothing. Tell father 
to send me a substitute right away.” 

But a substitute was not so easily found. The 
conscription act, enrolling every white male 
citizen between the ages of eighteen and forty* 
five, had been passed and was being rigidly en- 
forced, and where every man had to answer for 


60 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


himself, there was no one to answer for poor 
George Cahoule. 

*‘But there is old Nix’s boy; couldn’t they 
take him? He is not of age yet, but is large 
enough to pass,” suggested the anxious mother. 
‘‘I am sure he is better able to stand it than 
poor dear George.” 

“Yes, he will do — a fine, strapping lad. I 
will see old Nix and give him two hundred dollars 
to let him go, if only for sixty days, and then we 
can rope him in for good,” said the old gentle- 
man. 

Nix needed the money, and when to the two 
hundred dollars was added ten pounds of fine 
plug tobacco and a herd of goats that ran on the 
mountain behind his lots, the bargain was made, 
and the unloving wretch went home to prepare 
his son for the sacrifice. 

Robert Nix, the boy, not yet fifteen, was not 
unwilling to go. With the enthusiasm of youth 
he had read of the battles, and wished himself 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


61 


a man that he might share in their glories. His 
mother, however, and his sister, were not so 
enthusiastic, and with unavailing tears protested 
against the cruel bargain. 

“If he had to go, if his country needed him, 
if it was to fill his own place, I would not mind 
it. I would be proud to give my boy to my 
State, but to go as a substitute — a hireling slave 
— to take the place of this cowardly Cahoule is 
a dishonor, and I cannot bear it!” 

“Yes, but I need the money, and I’ve got the 
terbacker, and I’ll git the goats; and it’s only 
for sixty days anyhow, so it’s no use a-kicking 
up. Get his clothes ready by day after to- 
morrow. I’ve got him a new hat and a pair of 
shoes, and you can patch up the balance. Judge 
Cahoule will go with him, himself, so that settles 
it!” 

The mother wiped her eyes, and choking 
back her feelings as well as she could, went 
busily to work to arrange for his going. 


62 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


The next day after, Judge Cahoule came by 
in his buggy for the boy. The mother, making 
the best of the cruel circumstances, had tricked 
him out in his smartest clothes, and as he stood 
arrayed in his best, a military jacket, blue jean 
trousers with a broad stripe down the legs, and 
the jaunty new hat, he looked a splendid speci- 
men of young American manhood. 

“Be a good boy, Robbie,’^ said his motner to 
him, “and don’t forget mother.” Then she 
kissed him and let him go. 

The army was encamped in the wintry woods 
around Shelbyville. The prospect was cold 
and dreary enough, but the novelty of the scene, 
together with the cheery bursts of martial music 
from the bands, had a charm for the boy, and 
when he was brought before the colonel of the 
regiment for muster, he tried his best to look 
every inch a soldier. 

When questioned as to his age he hesitated a 
moment, but remembering his mother, he an- 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


63 


swered, a little timidly, as if ashamed of his 
youth, “I shall be fifteen next March.’’ 

“He is too young, Judge Cahoule. I am very 
sorry, but it would be unlawful to enlist him, 
and especially as a substitute for a strong, able- 
bodied man,” said the colonel. 

“Ah, but he is well-grown, active as a cat, 
healthy, and true grit,” insisted the judge. 

“I will venture this much, as a personal favor 
to you and to George : I will muster him in for 
sixty days and give George a furlough for that 
time,” compromised the colonel. 

“Very well; a half-loaf is better than none,” 
acquiesced the judge, and Robert Nix was duly 
enrolled and ordered to duty in Company C, 
while George Cahoule, shaking off the shackles 
of the army, hurried back home on the next train, 
to tell to admiring ears the wonderful stories 
of battle. 

The sixty days were soon out, and George 
Cahoule was resolved not to return to the army. 


64 ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 

Nix needed money, as he always did, and an 
offer of one thousand dollars was sufficient to 
persuade him to let Robert stay in the army. 
He went himself with the judge to headquarters 
to assure the colonel that it was all right and that 
he gave his consent. So the substitute was 
made permanent; Robert Nix was enlisted, and 
George Cahoule was discharged. 

The spring and summer campaign opened. 
Bragg retreated back to Chattanooga, sullenly 
giving way, inch by inch, while Rosecrans as 
stubbornly followed. During this time Robert 
Nix stood to his post like a veteran. On the 
toilsome march by day, or the lonely, watchful 
picket-post at night, he never once failed. A 
brave, handsome boy, he became the pride of 
his cororades, and a pet with his captain. 

But an evil day came, a day of battle, of death 
and of mourning, — Chickamauga, the dark 
“river of death.” 

On Friday skirmishing began, on Saturday 



‘ Yes, but I need the money and I’ve got the terbacker. 
and I’ll git the goats.’ ” 



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ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 65 

afternoon the battle opened, and on Sunday 
morning, a calm Sabbath morning, both armies 
were marshaled in line, face to face, ready to 
cast the fateful die. 

Up to that time, the last critical moment, 
Robert Nix had stood in line, elbow to elbow 
with the foremost file, and then he disappeared, 
silently, mysteriously, no one remembered when 
or how. 

It was not until roll-call after the battle that 
he was missed. 

“He was in line when we started; he must 
have been killed,’’ was the report of the orderly- 
sergeant. 

It was nearly two months afterward when a 
guard arrived from Columbus with a squad of 
prisoners, deserters arrested at home by the 
conscript cavalry, and brought back for trial. 

Among these, with a puzzled look of innocence 
in his eyes, was Robert Nix. 

Without explanation he was sent to the guard- 


66 ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 

house, and charges of desertion in the face of 
the enemy were perf erred against him. In the 
regular routine of events a court-martial was 
convened and he was duly arraigned. 

There is little ceremony and still less sentiment 
about a military court. War itself is a barbarism 
and all its adjuncts are cruel. But little mercy, 
then, could be expected from a court in which 
the responsibility of conscience was divided, 
and could be shifted to other shoulders. Slight 
chance was there for the youth and artless frank- 
ness of the prisoner to avail him in the trial. 

The judge-advocate was a lawyer, with all a 
lawyer’s instincts for distorting the evidence to 
suit his case. But the evidence needed no dis- 
tortion, it was fatally plain and to the point. 

Lientenant Snow testified that the prisoner, 
private Robert Nix, was present in line of battle 
on the morning of September the 20th, 1863, 
and that before or during the engagement that 
day he disappeared, without leave or authority. 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


67 


and was not heard of again until he was brought 
back to his command, under guard. 

Sergeant Bliss, acting orderly of Company C, 
with a soldier’s bluntness of diction, corrobor- 
ated the lieutenant’s statement. 

Captain Earle, of the conscript service, testi- 
fied, “that, having been advised by Judge 
Cahoule, a citizen of Ohio, of the prisoner’s 
whereabouts, he proceeded to the house, and 
after a strategic investment of the premises, he 
succeeded in arresting him, and finding him 
without leave of absence or written order, he 
securely tied him, and brought him back to the 
front.” 

This closed the testimony for the judge- 
advocate. 

“Now, sir, what have you got to say asked 
the president of the court. 

“If you please, sir, here’s a paper Mr. Phil 
Wood wrote for me, and told me to give it to 
you,” presenting a closely written scrawl. 


68 ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 

The president read it. It was a fatal confes- 
sion of guilt, and appeal to the clemency of 
the court. 

The president was a just man, though some- 
what callous, and seeing the ignorance of the 
prisoner, tore the paper into shreds, without 
submitting it to his court. 

‘‘This paper does not affect the case in the 
least. You must answer me now for yourself. 
How old are you ?” he asked. 

“ I shall be fifteen in March. ” 

“How came you in the army.?^” 

“My papa hired me to Judge Cahoule, to 
take the place of his son, Mr. George Cahoule.’’ 

“Did you want to come 

“Yes, sir, for a little while; I only come for 
sixty days, to give Mr. George a furlough.” 

“And when the time was up, you went home. ” 

“Oh, no, sir; Mr. Cahoule gave papa a thous- 
and dollars to make me stay all the time. I 
begged to go home, but Colonel Mitchell said 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


69 


my papa had a right to do as he oleased with 
me, and I had to stay.” 

“ Well, what made you run away from Chicka- 
mauga.^” 

“I didn’t run, sir,” with a proud flush and 
an unconscious straightening up. 

“How did you get away, then?” 

“I was shot, sir, and I hopped back on my 
gun to the hospital, and the doctor sent me off 
to Ringgold, on a wagon.” 

“You say you were shot?” 

“Yes, sir, I was shot in the leg, I can show 
you the scar.” 

“Let us see it.” 

The prisoner rolled up his trousers, and dis- 
played an ugly scar in the calf of his left leg. 

“That will do. Now tell me how it happened 
that none of your command saw you ?” 

“Well, ril tell you all about it. You see we 
wanted water, all of us, and when we was stand- 
ing in line, waiting for the wol’d, I asked 


70 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


Captain Rich if I mought- 
n’t run back and get adrink, 
and he told me yes, to 
make haste and get back, 
and so I run back as hard 
as ever I could; but the 
creek was furder than I 
thought, and afore I got 
back, the fight had begun 
and the regiment was gone, 
and the provost guard they 
picked me up and put me 
in a squad with Trigg’s 
^Indiana regiment, and we 
sailed in, and the first thing 
I knowed I felt my leg knocked out from 
under me, and when I tried to get up I fell and 
found that I was shot, and the major of the regi- 
ment told me to get back if I could, and if I 
couldn’t, to holler for the litter-bearers. 

“But I could hop by using my gun, and so I 



“ I just hobbled on.” 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


71 


just hobbled back, and I didn’t run a step. I 
wouldn’t ’a’ run like a coward for to save my 
life, for my mamma told me never to do that. 
You may shoot me if you want to, but I ain’t 
no coward. ” 

“You say Captain Rich told you to go after 
water?” 

“Yes, sir, he did.” 

“Where is Captain Rich?’^ 

“He’s dead, sir. He was killed that day, 
if he was alive he would tell you so.” 

“Well, but how did you get home, and how 
was it that the conscript cavalry got you ? ” 

“Well, I’ll tell you. You see, when I got 
to Ringgold they put me on the cars and sent me 
along with the other wounded, to Columbus, 
and from there they sent me to Springfield, and 
as we was a-passing Tucker town, I thought 
I’d just get off and get out home. It was only 
five miles, and so I got off; the boys helped me. 
and Mr. Mims sent ma out home in his buggy.” 


72 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


“And when you got well, why didn’t you come 
back?” 

“Well, I was a-coming, and I went to Spring- 
field, and Major Calhoun give me transportation 
back, and I come on back as f ar as Tuckertown, 
and only stopped a day, to run out home to get a 
coat my mamma was a-making me, and a poke 
of rations she was a-cooking for me, and that 
very same night the cavalry come and arrested 
me and tied me like a runaway nigger and 
brought me back, without even letting me get 
my vittles or my coat. ” 

“Well, is that all?” 

“Yes, sir, all as I knows; only if Captain 
Rich hadn’t ’a’ got killed, I wouldn’t ’a’ been in 
this fix. ” 

“You say Major Calhoun gave you transporta- 
tion from Springfield back to the army ?” 

“Yes, sir, he did.” 

“Where is it?” 

“It’s at home in my ’tother briches’ pockel. 
If you’ll write to mamma, she will send it to you. * 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 73 

“No, never mind, that will do. Gentlemen 
have you any questions to ask 
“No.” 

The prisoner was marched back to the guard- 
house, and the court proceeded to make a ver- 
dict. 

There was no discussion, each member of the 
court being simply asked, “What say you, 
is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?” 

It is the rule, in all military courts, for the 
junior officer in rank to vote first, and then the 
next, in an ascending scale. This is done, that 
the opinions of the seniors may not affect the 
judgment of the juniors. The vote is viva 
voce, and as one by one was asked, the answers 
came, “Guilty.” 

“The verdict is unainmous as to the guilt of 
the prisoner. Now, gentlemen, we will pass 
upon the sentences. ” 

This matter involved a long discussion, a 
majority contending for the whipping on the 


74 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


bare back, in the presence of his command, and 
branding in palm of his right hand with the 
letter D. 

To this the president dissented. 

“No, gentlemen,” he said, “there is but one 
adequate punishment for the offence of desertion 
in the face of the enemy, and that is death. 

“If this boy is guilty, as you say he is, let him 
be shot. If he is innocent, as I feel in my soul 
he is, he should go free. Having found him 
guilty, our duty is to sentence according to the 
findings, and the penalty for this offence is 
death. The rest we can leave to the command- 
ing general. ” 

So poor Robbie Nix was condemned to be 
shot to death, “at such time and place as the 
commanding general may designate.” 

The president, bluff old General Zachery, 
added to the oflficial report, “In consideration 
of the extreme youth of the prisoner, the manifest 
illegality of his enlistment, and his uniform good 
conduct as a soldier, previous to this offence, 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


75 


I respectfully commend him to the mercy of the 
commanding general, and would ask that he be 
discharged from custody and remanded to the 
regiment for duty.” 

The finding of the court was not to be made 
known, until the action of the general was re- 
turned, but in some way it leaked out, and fiew, 
with the instinct of bad news, to the ears of the 
mother at home . 

For a few moments, after hearing it, she stood 
dazed, then, creeping in to her room, she knelt 
by her bed, and poured out her sorrow in tears 
and sobs and prayers. 

At last, gathering her womanly courage with 
her womanly wits, she arose and commenced a 
hurried preparation for a journey. 

“But where’ll you get the money, Harry?” 
asked her husband, as she told him of her pur- 
pose. 

“I will sell the cow. That will be enough 
to carry me there.” 

“But how’ll you get back?” 


76 ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 

I can save my child, I can walk back; but 
if they murder my darling, I shall not care ever 
to come back; I shall pray to die, too.’* 

The cow was driven to the village and readily 
sold, and on the next train the heart-broken 
mother was on her way to offer her own life for 
the life of her son. 

She was a timid woman, modest and reserved, 
but her great anxiety made her courageous. 
Arrived at Fredericksburg, around which place 
the army was encamped, she made her way to 
the regimental headquarters, and received from 
the colonel a confirmation of the story. He told 
her that the matter was in the hands of General 
Grant, first, and as a last resort in the hand of 
President Lincoln, and offered to go with her to 
the general. 

It was late in the day, but there were no 
“oflBce hours” in the army. If they could reach 
headquarters before the general retired, they 
would be in time. 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


77 


They found him at supper. 

“Will the lady eat something?” was the 
hospitable invitation. 

“No, thanks. I came to tell you of my son. 
There is some mistake, a cruel mistake, I know. 
My boy is not a coward. He is not a deserter. 
I don’t know what they proved against him. 
but it is false that he ran away from the field of 
battle and came home without leave. He was 
wounded, sir, badly shot in the leg, I know, 
for I nursed him myself. If you will see him, 
sir, and let him tell you, you will know the truth, 
for I have taught him not to tell a lie, even to 
save his own life.” 

“Ah, but who is it ? I do not know to whom 
you refer,” said the general, puzzled at the 
lady’s earnestness. 

“My son, Robert Nix, whom they have falsely 
accused of desertion, and condemned to be 
shot” 

“General Brent, do you know anything of the 


78 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 


case?” turning to his adjutant-general and 
chief-of-staff. 

“I have had it under review to-day. It is a 
peculiar case, and I intended calling your atten- 
tion to it in the morning,” answered General 
Brent. 

“We will go through it now. My good lady 
you must wait here, until I examine the matter. ” 

“Oh, sir, I beg that you Vill let me explain” — 
she interrupted. 

“ No, be seated here. If I need you I will call 
you.” 

The poor lady sank down on a camp-stpol, 
and as the general went into his office with his 
adjutant, she slipped to her knees, and in silent 
prayer awaited the issue. 

She had not long to wait, although it seemed 
an age to her. The general himself came back, 
holding in his hand an order. 

“You tell me that your son was wounded ?” 

“As God will judge me in the day I stand 


ROBERT NIX, DESERTER 79 

i 

before Him, I tell you the truth. He came 
home to me wounded in the leg.” 

“And this story he told the court is true?” 

“ I know not what he told the court, only this, 
if he told anything at all, he told the truth.” 

“Madam, I believe you and I believe him. 
Here is an order for his release. I will send an 
orderly with you to the guard, or else have him 
conducted to you at your quarters; perhaps 
that would be best.” 

“No, no, let me go to my son where he is. 
And, oh, sir, I do wish I was able to thank you, 
but I am not, my heart is too full. God bless’’ 
— and too much overcome for further speech, 
she could only seize the general’s hand and kiss 
it. 

Then, almost tottering with the burden of 
her joy, she followed the orderly to the guard- 
house, bearing the little slip of paper which 
saved his life and his honor. 



T HERE’S never been anything in my life 
just regular,” said Eliza. She was 
perched on the top rail of a fence, while a little 
old lady in hooped gown, lace shawl, and wide 
hat with a tilting veil, stood beside her listening 
with pleased interest. 

‘‘To begin with,” continued Eliza, chewing 

a wisp of her long fair hair, “I told you we used 

to live below here in a ‘ mesh ’ country, and eight 

of us children and pa and ma died of malaria, 

one after another. ‘Pears to me there was 

always somebody sick in the back room. I, 

being the littlest, couldn’t get so many shakes 

in my system as they had, and I wasn’t dead, 

but got to be a orphan at ten years old. 

“That was three years ago. Then Uncle 
80 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


81 


fieach took me, and I couldn’t read nor write. 
He was squatting on your brother’s land where 
you lived all your days, and you saw me, ’n’ 
got int’rested and taught me. I tell you. Miss 
Vane, I’d lay down my life for you!” 

“You must not talk that way; it is wicked,” 
said Miss Vane, promptly. “I suppose, though, 
it’s just your earnest way of speech. Now don’t 
kiss my hand, Eliza; that is not pretty at all. 
Why, the other day you were kissing my gown. 
You make me feel like a heathen idol.” 

“I love you just to death!” cried Eliza, her 
big blue eyes glowing, her thin little face bright 
and eager. “Before you took int’rest in me, I 
settled down to be poor white trash like the 
rest. The Beaches didn’t like me as well as 
their children, ‘cause I wasn’t their own folks, 
but an orphan. But that last year at the manor 
house with you has been just beautiful, like 
I dreamed it. 

“I knowed it wouldn’t last. I said to myself 


82 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


— ^when you came for me and said the slaves is 
all gone, and you’d pay Uncle Beach for my 
services — just said, ‘Lizer Jackson, it aren’t 
true; you’re a-makin’ b’lieve all this!’ 

“Sure enough, now it’s gone! I heerd the 
soldiers was coming, and when I see the man 
with the buggy driving up, I knowed the Cap’n 
had sent for you, and I run away down here to 
cry it out.” 

She ended with a stifled sob. 

“But the very idea!” cried Miss Vane, fret- 
fully. “To leave the house and all my things 
that have been in our family over a hundred 
years, and all my brother’s wife’s belongings — ” 

“She that died the bride of a year,” put in 
Eliza, mournfully. She had heard the story 
so often that it was quite real to her. 

“Yes, and all my mother’s treasures. Just 
a few hours to get ready in, and no room to take 
anything. Just like a man to say, ‘Give things 
up — it can’t be helped!’ Who will put pans 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


83 


under the leaks when it rains, or air the rooms 
or keep the doors locked, and feed the hens? 
A woman can’t give up so easily. O Eliza, it 
breaks my heart ! I am not afraid of the soldiers. 
The ships will go up the river, and never see 
Live-Oaks at all. They’ve something better 
to do than to rob old women.” 

“Talking makes it wuss,” said Eliza, prompt- 
ly. “ We’ll go back and pack the things. When 
I heard you calling, I felt a chill — a real creepy 
one. I knew you’d got to go, and I’d woke up 
from dreaming I lived in the manor.” 

She helped Miss Vane up the avenue to the 
big white house, with its pillared portico, green 
blinds and general air of desolation and decay. 
It was hidden from the traveling road by a 
grove, and from the river by a great avenue of 
live-oaks that led down to the water’s edge. 

The estate had been in the Vane family nearly 
a century, but for years the fortunes of the race 
had been failing, and Captain Vane and his 


84 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


sister had barely sufficient to live upon — ^not 
enough to keep up the old place. 

The ships of the Union navy were coming 
up the river, and the families along the shore 
were hastily abandoning their homes. Miss 
Vane’s preparations for departure were soon 
made, and very tearful and complaining, the old 
lady was helped into the buggy. 

Her modest bundle of clothes followed; then 
a package of the family silver, a few old rehcs, 
and a basket containing the cat. She bade Eliza 
return to her uncle’s, and if she stayed, to keep 
an eye on the house. 

“If the soldiers don’t rob the house, tramps 
will. ’Taint but twenty-five miles from N’ Or- 
leans, and lots of ’em will be cornin’ this way,” 
said the driver, “so you might as well say good- 
by to everything.” 

Too much overcome to speak. Miss Vane could 
only wave her wrinkled hand in farewell. 

Eliza sat on the doorstep in the twilight, a 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


85 


pathetic little figure. A damp wind off the 
river soughed through the oaks, waving the long 
palls of moss. In the dim light some of the trees 
took on queer shapes of gigantic hags, with 
streaming gray hair and black, waving arms. 
In the descried house, floors creaked, doors 
jarred, and the stairway sounded as if pressed 
by ghostly feet. 

Then there came the rattle of wheels. Eliza, 
hiding behind a pillar, saw her uncle and his 
family go by in their big wagon, dragging a cow 
tied behind, and a yellow dog following. Sup- 
posing the girl had gone with Miss Vane, her 
uncle did not look toward the manor at all. 

“They’re running away, too,” said Eliza. 
“They’d take me if I hollered. But I’m going 
to stay and set them drip pans, air the mold off 
things, and feed the hens. I’m going to pay 
Miss Vane for that teachin’. Soldiers is men 
anyway, an’ maybe has girls of their own. I 
ain’t afraid.” 


86 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


She opened the great oak door, stepped into 
the dim hall, and went toward the stairs. On 
her way she patted the big clock, which was near- 
ly twice as tall as she. 

“You’re such a lively one,” she said; “your 
tick-tock is real company!” 

Up to her own room — the tiny one opening 
out of Miss Vane’s — she climbed, and after 
saying her prayers went peacefully to sleep. 
The moon rose over the long avenue of live-oaks, 
traced graceful leaf-shadows on the shelly walks, 
turned the old manor to a palace of marble, 
and touched with kindly light the sleeping face 
of the sentinel of Live-Oaks. 

All the next day the child worked, hiding 
away under the eaves and in the cellar Miss 
Vane’s treasures, and at night climbing the 
stairs, a shrinking, solitary figure. Few men 
would care to stay alone in such an eerie place 
as that old house, in the midst of a region over- 
run with lawless camp-followers and hiding 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


87 


negroes. The child, knowing little, feared less. 
And Live-Oaks, indeed, escaped robbery, pro- 
bably because it was so far from a travelled road. 

All those days the air resounded with the far- 
away roar of cannon, like distant thunder. The 
sentinel heard it, but went about her labors 
of love unmoved. 

The second day of her watch she brought up 
to the head of the stairs, with great difficulty, 
a suit of armor. It was so mounted that it 
looked like a big man, and during Eliza’s first 
visits to the manor, it had been a source of ex- 
treme terror to her. Now, however, it gave 
her a sense of companionship and protection. 
Before she locked her door she called out good- 
night to the comforting figure in armor. 

One moonlight night a skulking figure crossed 
the fields. It was a black man in search qf 
plunder. He noted the quiet house, and stealth- 
ily climbed the portico, swinging himself up 
by the stout old vines. Then he peered cautious- 


88 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


ly in at the hall window, which seemed an easy 
way to enter. His very wool stiffened as his 
wild eyes beheld a great figure in shining armor 
and helmet with visor down, in the moonlit 
room. His excited fancy gave it a slow and 
stately motion. He fied for his life; and the 
little sentinel never dreamed of his presence. 

The sixth night of Miss Vane’s absence was 
close and hot. Eliza, leaning from a window, 
saw a great glow in the sky. 

“Mebbe it’s jest a fire in N’Or leans,’* she 
muttered. “Or p’r’aps it’s judgment day — 
everything’s changing so. It smells smoky, 
too. If it’s life everlasting come, I can’t be in 
no better place then here, taking care of them 
fam’ly relics for her I love more’n all the world.” 

Secure in her simple faith, she went to her 
bed. All that next day she saw from a hiding- 
place, near the bank, great majestic ships go 
up the stream toward the city that had burned its 
stores the night before. 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


They’re going ! They’re going ! ” Eliza cried. 
**They haven’t seen our house at all, and Miss 
Vane kin come home!” 

She ran to the house and began a furious 
putting to rights. She baked a large loaf of 
corn-meal bread — she had only meal — and tried 
in her childish way to have everything as Miss 
Vane would have wished. At night, quite ex- 
hausted with her efforts, she sat down on the 
steps to rest, leaning her head against one of 
the fluted columns. “I ain’t ’fraid ’t all,” she 
said; “being brave jest comes nateral after a 
while.” 

Was that queer noise the wind ? That faint, 
far-away moan ? 

“If I was afraid. I’d just run in the house and 
slam the door,” sighed poor Eliza. “That’s a 
sure ’nuff groan. If the Beaches was here they’d 
be scared outer their wits.” 

In the gray light, under the live-oaks, the 
stooping, limping figure of a man made his way 


do THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 

from tree to tree. He staggered on, and then 
fell at the steps. When he opened his dazed 
eyes he saw, by the light of a lantern, a child’s 
pale, earnest face. 

“I knowed ye, Cap’n Vane! I respected you’d 
come home cried,” Eliza, “and if you’ll just try 
a little. I’ll h’ist ye inter the house.” 

“Who are you?” he asked, when he had 
reached the hall, where, unable to move him 
further, she made him a comfortable bed. 

“You ain’t been home of late, or you’d seen 
me,” she answered. “I’m the poor white trash 
your sister teached. I’m takin’ care, of her 
prop’ty for her.” 

She dressed his wounds as he directed, and 
was such a careful nurse that he grew better 
rapidly. 

“I reckon you’re picking up,” she said, one 
morning, as she brought him his breakfast. 
“But if I kills all the chickens for you, what’ll 
Miss Vane eat when she comes ? She’s so 
dre’ful pertikler ’bout her victuals. ” 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


91 


‘‘Don’t kill any more,” he laughed. “What 
a brave child you are! Why, I wouldn’t like to 
stay alone in this ghostly place.” 

“Being a orphan and having your relations 
sorter pick on you makes you ’customed to being 
lonesome,” said Eliza, soberly, “and I do take 
such comfort in takin’ care of her things like 
she wanted, and I’ve hid them relics of her 
arncesters where even soldiers can’t find ’em. 
I hain’t really had no time to be scared. ” 

One night, two days later, a sudden storm 
came up, and Eliza, mindful of the leaky roof, 
rose from her bed to set the pans. She opened 
the hall window to look at the rain, so that she 
might judge of the number of pans required; 
and then it was that she heard voices and the 
thud of horses’ hoofs. 

Quick as a flash she ran to Captain Vane’s 
room. He was sleeping on his sofa, in readiness 
to depart in the dawn, for he was in the enemy’s 
territory. 


9ft 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


“What shall I do?” he cried. “They are 
Union soldiers, and will make me a prisoner. 
There is no time to escape. ” 

“Hide in the figger there; I’ve done it!” 
said Eliza. “There’s lots of room. They’ll 
think lt*s only a tin man.” 

Thundering knocks jarred the door, echoing 
through the house. 

“The place is deserted,” said a voice. 

“What is it?” called Eliza, from the hall 
window. 

“Soldiers seeking shelter. If you don’t open 
the door we’ll break it down. ” 

“They’ve come, they’ve come!” wept the 
child. “They’ll spile her things! What shall 
I do? They break everything! I’ll let you in 
if you won’t hurt things, misters,” she called. 

“That’s cool,” laughed a man. “Break in 
the door!” 

But before he finished the door was suddenly 
opened, revealing the figure of a small girl in a 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


9S 


queer calico wrapper. 

She held a candle in 
one trembling hand, 
and with the other 
pushed the long, fair 
hair out of her eyes. 

Seven blue-coated 
soldiers crowded into 
the hall, looking at 
her with amsued in- 
terest. 

“Are you the sen- 
tinel?’’ one asked. 

“I’m taking care 
of Miss Vane’s 
prop’ty,” said the 
child, bravely. “Her brother made her go 
’way and leave all the family relics, and they 
can’t never git no more, ’cause she and him 
is old an’ hasn’t no money even to put a new 
roof on. Mebbe some of you has girls like me. 



‘She held a candle.” 


94 THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 

and you wouldn’t wan ter be mean, on that 
account. And all Cap’n Vane’s wife’s things, 
she the bride of a year, is jest as she left ’em, 
even her work-basket, an’ you wouldn’t hurt 
them things, I’m sure! You see I wasn’t no 
’count till Miss Vane teached me. Our folks 
is poor whites, but she’s quality.” 

“You can’t make me believe you’ve stayed 
in this old barracks alone,” said a soldier, 
gruffly. “I’ll stay here and watch. The rest 
of you go over the house. ” 

He questioned her in a kindly way when the 
rest had lighted all her precious candles and gone 
about the house. 

But she had suddenly become silent. If they 
should find Miss Vane’s brother! She might 
say something wrong if she opened her lips, so 
she placed one trembling hand over her mouth 
to make herself silent. 

She heard the soldiers clattering over head, 
slamming doors, and knocking furniture about. 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


95 


Then they trooped back, and one man hit the 
armored figure a sounding blow as he passed. 

“A fine old chap,” he said, carelessly. The 
child’s heart gave a sudden leap as she drew a 
quick breath of relief. 

They went out into the kitchen and pantry, 
and returned with the meagre store of eggs and 
corn bread. They spread this meal on the 
parlor table, and put their muddy feet on the 
faded satin chairs. 

“I kin git them mud marks off the parlor 
chairs,” said Eliza, anxiously, “but them crumbs 
on the carpet is just awful!” 

Every man laughed good-naturedly. Then 
all put down their feet, and took pains not to 
drop their food. 

“She’s an older maid than the old one with 
the cork-screw curls in the picture there,” said 
a gray-bearded man. “I never saw such an 
odd one. I hope, sis, the time will come when 
the two of you can be living here in comfort, in 
single state, with forty cats apiece.” 


96 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


At dawn they rode away, and the wearied 
Captain Vane came out of his hiding-place. 

“Eliza,” he said, as he took up his bundle of 
provisions and his cane to aid his slow departure, 
“I’m off now. A friend of mine will see me 
down the river. I want you to keep these papers. 
I have willed my property to you when my 
sister is done with it. She is the only one of my 
family left, but the old place will be in worthy 
hands. When my sister dies you will be her 
heir. You saved the relics; and one relic of the 
line— the last of the name — will be grateful to 
his life’s end.” 

He crossed the threshold for the last time, and 
with one farewell glance disappeared down the 
avenue, under the old oak trees that would shade 
the master of Live-Oaks never again. He fell 
in Virginia, and was buried there. 

“He said I could go to N’Orleans,” muttered 
the child, “and he’d give me money, and put me 
in some folks’s care; but I ain’t goin’ to give up 



■ 

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tell you, Miss Vane, I’d lay down my life for you.’ 

















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THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


97 


now, if it is so lonesome. Cur’us how skeery 
’tis when folks has been here and gone ! Mebbe 
I’m gittin’ to see things like loonytics, for there’s 
been a something moving in them trees for ten 
minutes. I don’t care what I sees — I’m just 
goin’ ter be gritty and stay and take care of 
her things, for she’ll come back, I’m sure. 
She’s come!” shrieked the child, darting down 
the avenue. “That’s her I know, and the very 
basket she took the cat away in!” 

A queer little bent figure in a calico gown 
and sun-bonnet approached the house in a 
stealthy way. 

“You blessed child, are you here.?” cried 
Miss Vane, bursting into happy tears. “And 
I all the way dreading to be alone here, and 
bringing the cat for company! But I made up 
my mind, war or no war, I’d come back and take 
care of my property. Every time it rained I 
couldn’t sleep for worrying, and I’ve been three 
days on my journey here — I’m so slow-footed. 


98 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


I borrowed the cook’s gown and bonnet, and 
dearie me! I’ve slept in the woods, so I can 
hardly drag myself with rheumatism.” 

“All the things is safe,” cried Eliza. “The 
soldiers come, but they only ate the food and 
greased the carpet a little, and they didn’t catch 
Cap’n Vane neither, for he hid in the tin image 
and they never respected it! You come up and 
set down, and I’ll tell you all about it, and 
where the relics is hid ; and what a sight of com- 
pany the cat will be! I wisht so that day you’d 
left it, but I was ’fraid if you thought I was 
goin’ to stay here alone you’d stay; and if you 
was killed it would be all my fault — me that just 
worships the ground you walks on!” 

Eliza, kneeling at Miss Vane’s side, related all 
her adventures. The cat, curled up in its 
mistress’s lap, purred a soft accompaniment. 

“Don’t you ever say poor white trash again,” 
interrupted Miss Vane. “You are going to 
belong to my family now. You and I will take 


THE SENTINEL OF LIVE OAKS 


99 


care of the old place — ^maybe live on it many 
peaceful years — and I sha’n’t forget, Eliza# 
what you’ve done for me, nor my joy at seeing 
you here. I don’t see how you could have stood 
it.” 

“I reckon ’cause I was a orphan,” said Eliza. 



Lore. 



I T was on the evening of St. Valentine’s day, 
February 14, 1865, that Lieut. Frederic 
Stanton, of the Pennsylvania Cavalry, climbed 
over the wall of Camp Asylum, the Confederate 
military prison near Columbia, South Carolina. 
He had contrived to escape during an unusual 
shifting of the prisoners, who were to be moved 
to a distant place as soon as possible, for Sher- 
man was not far away, and the men in gray 
meant to hold their prisoners beyond Sherman’s 
reach. 

Cold, sleety rain was falling in torrents, and 

the wind was a gale. The guards were looking 

for Stanton with flaring torches before he had 

fairly jumped down, but they did not know 

precisely where he had climbed up. He lay 
100 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


101 


breathless and exhausted, for he was weak and 
fatigued by his climbing, within two hundred 
yards of the wall, until he saw the lights of the 
guards on his trail. 

“I reckon that Yank has done got away,” 
said one. 

Stanton heard the words so distinctly that he 
believed the pursuers nearer to him than they 
were. He rose and ran again. His hope was 
to “make Sherman,” though his strength was 
not enough to take him far. 

From Camp Asylum to the northeast lay a 
comparatively open space, with but few houses. 
The railroad was in this direction, and Stanton’s 
idea was to reach it and follow it until daylight, 
then secrete himself and await events. 

He believed that General Kilpatrick’s blue 
cavalry would soon be in Columbia. He knew 
that Gen. Wade Hampton’s gray cavalry were 
scouting the country, but he was confident that 
he could detect the presence of a mounted man 


102 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


before the mounted man could see him. There 
were no street-lights in Columbia, and certainly 
no citizens would be abroad in a night like 
that. 

The young lieutenant reached the main road, 
and stared north toward the railroad at the 
best pace be could make in the mud and dark- 
ness. No lights were visible in any of the houses, 
and not even a dog barked. He had gone 
nearly a mile, when he stumbled headlong and 
rolled down an embankment. The road had 
narrowed as it approached a bridge, and in the 
darkness he had missed it and fallen into a 

gully. 

As he groped around in the darkness he found 
the abutments of the bridge, and crawled under 
the superstructure to escape the pelting storm 
while he should recover his breath. There his 
foot struck something soft that screamed and 
sobbed, “O-o-o mammy! mammy!” 

The cavalryman jumped back. Had the 


LIEUTENANT STANTONS ESCAPE lOS 

familiar sound of “Halt, there!’’ sounded in his 
ears, it would not have scared him so badly. 

“Who are you? What are you?” he stam- 
mered. 

The answer was “O-o mammy!” and bitter 
sobbing. 

“Some poor little lost darky,” thought Stan- 
ton, and he said aloud, “Sho’, sho,’ don’t cry, 
little chap ! Nobody’ll hurt you. ” 

In the darkness he could barely discern the 
child. He touched it, and it screamed in terror 
but he grapsed it firmly, speaking soothing words, 
and passed his hand over it. Its head was 
covered with long silky hair; its dress was very 
wet, and it was barefooted. 

“A little white girl!” said Stanton in astonish- 
ment. “How on earth, child, did you ever 
get here?” 

The only answer was sobs, and a fearful 
chattering of teeth with a croupy cough. The 
child was in great need of immediate attention. 


104 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


“Now here’s a pretty mess!” said Stanton. 
“What on earth am I to do.^ This young one 
will choke to death with the croup or perish 
with cold before morning if I leave her here; 
if I take her to a house, I am sure to be recap- 
tured. How on earth did she ever get here, 
anyway? Just my blamed luck! Well, if she 
dies, it’s none of my affairs — but no, I can’t 
leave her here to die, poor little thing!” for the 
tiny girl was whooping and choking fearfully. 

He thought of a large house he had passed. 
“I could take here there and leave her, and then 
run,” he said to himself. So he gathered the 
little one in his arms, and wrapped her in the 
piece of old shelter tent that he had over his 
shoulders. 

With his choking, crying burden he staggered 
through the storm to a large house whose out- 
line he had seen vaguely in the darkness. Hav- 
ing groped his way through the shrubbery that 
surrounded the mansion, he saw a faint light 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


105 


glimmering through the blinds of an upper 
window. With the old-fashioned knocker on 
the front door he raised a rattling alarm. 

From the window above him came the voice 
of an old colored aunty: “Who dar? Wha’ 
yo’ want?” 

“A lost little child is here. I found her under 
the bridge. She has the croup, and needs 
immediate attention.” 

“We’se ain’ los’ no chillen. GVay fum 
yere!” said the aunty, sternly. 

“But this little child will surely die if she is 
not attended to right away. Don't be afraid; 
no one will hurt you. Can't you hear for your- 
self ?” for the child was chocking badly. 

“Dat's sho'ly de croup. Wait a minute.” 

Stanton soon heard the sound of footsteps in 
the hall and the agitated voices of ladies; ap- 
parently they were greatly alarmed. 

“Who are you, sir, and why do you come to 
my house at this hour of the night ?” demanded 
a lady through the closed door 


106 LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 

“I am a Union oflScer, madam. I found this 
little child under the bridge, and I have brought 
her here as it is the nearest house. I will leave 
as soon as I place her in your keeping,’’ said 
Stanton, and the little one, crying and choking, 
seemed to corroborate his story. 

“He speaks like a gentleman,” said a soft, 
sweet voice inside. 

“Open the door. Rose,” said the other lady. 

The big key grated in the old lock, the door 
opened a little, and by the light of a flickering 
candle, held by a stout colored woman, Stanton 
saw a pleasant-faced, middle-aged lady, a pretty 
young lady, holding with both hands a big 
cavalry sabre, and a boy of twelve years with a 
small, single-barrelled shot-gun. 

The ladies saw a very wet and muddy young 
oflScer, his face blue with cold. He wore the 
short cavalry jacket of his service, with his 
lieutenant’s shoulder-straps; all his clothing 
was very much the worse for wear. In his arms 
lay a very dirty, wet, drabbled little girl. 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


107 


‘‘Come in, sir,’’ said the elder lady, sym- 
pathetically; and Stanton entered, with an 
amused glance at the pretty girl and the sabre, 
and the little boy with the shotgun. Taking 
off his dripping hat, he bowed low to the ladies 
and addressed the elder: 

“This is a case of croup, madam, that requires 
prompt action. Probably you know better than 
I do what ought to be done for her.” 

“ How did the poor little thing happen to be out 
on such a night the elderly lady asked, 
wonderingly. 

“I do not know, madam. I never saw her 
until I found her under the bridge. Now that 
she is here, I know that you will do all that you 
can for her, and with your permission I will 
leave. ” 

He handed the child to the colored woman, 
who took her, saying. “De po’ lilly lamb is 
sho’ly bad. Gib her to ole Mammy Rose. 
She’ll tek keer ob de po’ lilly t’ing. Gwine ter 


108 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


put her inter hot water an’ gib her some goose- 
grease d’rectly. 

“You must have a great desire for liberty to 
brave a storm like this,” said the lady, as Rose 
disappeared with the child. 

“It is the desire of my life,” said Stanton. 
“Twice previously I escaped, only to be re- 
captured. It is rumored that General Kil- 
patrick has broken the railroad north of here. 
If possible, I mean to reach him.” 

“Yet for the sake of a poor little lost child you 
took the almost certain chances of recapture.” 

“That is true,” said Stanton, “but there 
didn’t seem to be anything else to do. If I 
had left the child to perish, I should have 
been her murderer. If a guard had tried 
to stop me, I would have knocked him in the 
head without any scruples. But a little help- 
less child — that’s very different.” 

The lady looked at him curiously. “But 
suppose that we should detain you ?” 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


109 


“I do not think you will,” he answered, 
quietly. 

“Do you think that you are strong enough to 
travel in this storm?” she asked. 

“To tell you the truth, madam,” said Stan- 
ton, “I have overexerted myself in trying to get 
away, and I don’t think that I can go far; but 
I will go as far as I can.” 

“Let him stay here, mamma! I like him! 
He looks like Brother Roy!” said the boy with 
the shotgun, impulsively. 

“ It would seem like murder to turn any human 
being out of the house in this storm,” said the 
young lady. Stanton gave her a grateful look, 
but said nothing. 

“ Lientenant, ” said the mistress, “I have a 
proposition to make to you. You are a brave 
man and a gentleman; your actions this night 
have shown it. As my boy has said, you look 
like my oldest son, Roy. I place him in youi 
position, and try to think what I would wish a 


110 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


Northern woman to do for him under similar 
circumstances. Your General Sherman and 
his army will certainly be in Columbia in a few 
days. I will hide you here in this house until 
the United States troops are in the city, and I 
hope you will then try to obtain for me a guard, 
that my home may not be despoiled of what 
little we have left.” 

Stanton reflected for a moment. “Is there 
any good reason why you should not have a 
guard.?” he asked. 

“There is not,” she answered promptly. “I 
am Mrs. Royston; my husband is a surgeon 
with General Lee; my oldest son, Roy, is with 
Richards’s South Carolina battery at Peters- 
burg; this is my daughter Marion and my son 
Morris. ” 

Stanton acknowledged the introduction in 
his best manner, and gave his name, rank, and 
regiment, and gratefully accepted the lady’s 
offer. 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


111 


^^Now,” said Mrs. Royston, “come into the 
dining-room and warm yourself.’* 

She led the way to the dining-room, where 
Rose had already started a blazing fire. The 
ladies looked at his drenched, muddy garments, 
and held a whispered consultation. 

“I have,” said Mrs. Royston, “long ago torn 
up all my spare bedding for bandages for the 
hopsitals and sent off all my blankets for our 
soldiers, but I have retained some of the clothing 
of my husband and son, to be used in case of 
sickness or wounds,” — the lady’s voice faltered 
a little, — ^“and I think that I can give you a 
change; certainly you need it.” 

“I shall be most grateful,” said Stanton. 

The ladies and boy left the room, and in a 
little while Morris came back with a lighted 
candle. “I will show you to your room,” he 
said. 

Stanton followed him to a chamber on the 
second floor. A fire was burning in the fire- 


112 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


place, and on the bed was a change of under- 
clothing, a pair of pearl-colored trousers of the 
style of thirty years earlier, a black velvet waist- 
coat with goldstone buttons, and a pair of em- 
broidered cloth slippers. 

“ Mamma says for you to sleep until she sends 
Rose to call you in the morning,” said Morris. 
“But first she will bring you some supper as 
soon as she can get it ready. ” 

“I shall be glad of that, indeed,” said Stan- 
ton, “Your mother is very thoughtful; please 
thank her for me.” 

The boy bowed and went down-stairs. “I 
thought they said there weren’t any gentlemen 
among the Yankees,” he said to Marion. 

“But you see there is one, at least,” said the 
pretty girl. 

Wash-stand, basin, water, and towels — how 
long since Stanton had seen them before! He 
was soon very much cleaner, and eyed the dry, 
sweet garments; he laughed as he took up the 



With his choking crying burden he staggered through 
the storm.” 



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sr* 

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LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 113 

white shirt, with its old-fashioned, high “stand- 
ing dickey.’’ “This is the iSrst ‘boiled shirt’ 
I’ve had in a long time,” he said to himself. 
He had scarcely put it on when Aunty Rose 
knocked at the door, 

“ Jes’ a li’l mossel of sumpin’ to eat, sah,” 
she replied to his, “Who is there and she left 
it down on the hall floor, and went away at his 
request. 

Stanton opened the door, brought in the food — 
it consisted of hoe-cake, cold chicken and pease- 
Voffee — and ate and drank ravenously, sitting 
in his shirt-sleeves. Then, what with his com- 
forted interior and an exterior warmed by the 
fine fire, he felt drowsy and lay down on the bed. 
There he rolled himself luxuriously in the cotton 
sheets, and went to sleep in a moment without 
the least misgiving. 

“They are true chivalry,” he said to him- 
self, and it was, strange to say, of Miss Marion 
especially he was thinking as he made this 
reflection. 


114 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


Stanton was sleeping soundly when Rose 
called him for breakfast. He was soon dressed, 
but his cavalry jacket, though he had hung it 
before the fire, was still so wet and dirty that he 
disliked to put it on over the immaculate, old- 
fashioned white shirt, so he decided to go down 
to breakfast in slippers and shirt-sleeves. Lucky 
resolution ! As he was going down-stairs he 
heard the rough voices of men in the dining- 
room below, and Miss Marion came flying 
up toward him. 

“O sir, don’t go down; three stragglers are 
in the dining-room; they are ruffians, and de- 
mand breakfast and have threatened mamma. 
Oh, what shall we do 

“Threatening your mamma, are they.?” said 
Stanton, stepping farther down. Just then the 
dining-room door opened and he heard a rough 
voice, “Now, old woman, make that nigger of 
yourn hustle up that thar breakfast; stir your- 
selves, all of you.” 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 115 
Stanton’s blood boiled. 

‘‘ Is that sabre in the hall ? ” 
he whispered, 

Marion nodded, Stanton 
darted down the stairs, 
followed by the pretty 
girl. Sabre in hand he 
entered the dining-room. 

His slippered feet made no 
noise, and the men did 
not notice him until he 
sternly demanded, “What 
are you doing here ? Get 
out of this house!” 

The men turned on him, what are you doing here ? 
but the flashing eyes and resolute face warned 
them not to approach too near the sabre. 

“Who are you that’s givin’ orders?” asked 
one, surlily. 

“I’ll let you know who I am if you don’t 
leave at once,” said Stanton; he had instantly 



116 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


noticed that they were not soldiers, but simply 
stragglers from the camps near the city. 

One of the men looked at Stanton keenly 
“You talk like a Yank; I believe you are a 
Yank!” he said. 

Quick as a flash Marion interposed: “You 
miserable man ! How dare you insult a guest of 
the family of Doctor Royston.?^” 

“Never mind, Marion,” said Stanton, as if 
he had known her all his life. “I will attend 
to these fellows. Now, men,” he spoke very 
sharply, “get out of this house at once, or there 
will be some heads broken,” and he twirled the 
sabre with a practised hand. 

The men recognised that moulinet — none but 
a trained cavalryman could swing a sabre in 
that manner. 

“Reckon we had better go. Ax yo’ pardin* 
majah, but we-uns hain’t had much to eat lately, 
and we was feelin’ mighty cross an’ sassy like,” 
said one of them, with a faint attempt at an 
apology. 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


117 


“And we-uns is mos’ done out, looking all 
night for a little girl that’s gone astray.” 

“Why, I found a little girl astray last night,” 
said Stanton. 

And sure enough the men were seeking the 
very child he had saved. She was now quite 
cured of her croup, though still a little weak, 
and within half an hour was being carried to her 
mother, one of the many country people who had 
fled before Sherman’s van. 

After the men, to whom Mrs. Royston gave a 
good breakfast, had gone away with the little 
girl, the family and Stanton took their morning 
meal, during which it was decided that the Union 
lieutenant had better be secreted in the attic 
during the day. 

In the afternoon the sound of artillery was 
heard, and soon after Morris came in with the 
report that the Union prisoners had been sent off 
on the railroad, for General Kilpatrick had not 
torn up the road, as reported. 


118 


LIEUTENANT STANTON’S ESCAPE 


The next day there was much artillery-firing, 
and occasionally the crackle of musketry could 
be heard. On the morning of the seventeenth, 
clouds of smoke and the smell of burning cotton 
came from the city. Looking from the attic 
window, Stanton saw the Confederate cavalry 
retiring across the open ground to the northeast 
of the city. 

He was watching them when Mrs. Roys ton 
called to him from the hall below. 

“Lieutenant,” she said, “come down; your 
friends are in the city.” 

Going to a front chamber window, and look- 
ing down the street, he could see in the distance 
the long line of glistening muskets and bayonets 
swaying above the solid column of marching 
blue. The fifes were playing shrilly and the 
drums rolling, and the men singing lustily the 
solemn “Battle-Cry of Freedom;” and tears 
rolled down Stanton’s cheeks. 




HE war was drawing to a close and we had 


heard but few of its terrible sounds in 


our farmhouse, twelve miles from the nearest 
village. But one day rumors came of a great 
army of raiders that was marching through the 
country, and would imdoubtedly come our way. 

All the fathers and grown brothers were away 
in the army, and these stories of raiders had an 
awful meaning to the frightened mothers and 
children, left alone in those isolated farm-houses. 
I felt perfectly certain in my own little mind that 
a “Yankee’’ had horns somewhere about his 
head, — although my own dear father was a 
genuine New Englander, — and that a raider was 
something large and black and terrible. 


119 


120 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


I will tell how the raiders came 
We children had gone to school, three and a 
half miles through the woods to a little country 
school-house that stood by the side of a railroad. 
This was not a very important railroad to most 
of the world, but to the school-children it stood 
for a great deal. For every day, about twelve 
o’clock, a little engine and two cars came rolling 
past our school-house for us to watch and admire. 

On this particular day we were having recess, 
as usual, at twelve o’clock, when we heard a 
loud long whistle from our little engine, and 
somehow we felt that something was the matter. 
We all crowded near the track and watched the 
little train come flying and panting along. 
Suddenly we saw something red waving from 
the back platform, and as the engine and first 
car whizzed past us we watched almost breath- 
lessly to find the meaning of this strange signal. 

A man stood on the end of the last car and 
waved a red flag toward us, shouting with all his 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


121 


might, ‘‘Run home! The Yanks are comin!” 
Then he was gone, whirling on toward the village 
where his news was to spread wild excitement. 

For a moment we children stood stupidly 
gazing down the track; and then the teacher 
called us in. 

“Get your things on,’’ she said, “and go home 
as fast as you can, and tell your mothers to get 
ready for the raiders.” 

If you have never been raided you cannot 
know what excitement and terror gave wings 
to our little feet as we scampered home through 
the woods. The great, quiet forest seemed full 
of danger ; we dreaded to look either side lest we 
should see raiders, with their horny heads and 
their guns, peering out from behind the trees. 

The way had never seemed so long or lonely 
before, and I am sure we went over it more 
quickly than we had ever done, even on the 
blithest, happiest morning. My big brother 
was a few feet ahead, carrying the news on the 


m 


THE FEDERAL KAlDLRb 


end of his tongue, my little 
sister was wearily paddling 
along behind, and my little 
self was in the middle, won- 
dering if we should ever 
reach home and be safe once 
more in mother’s care. 

At last we dragged our- 
selves through the gate and 
across the yard to the farm- 
house. There was an air of 
utter loneliness about the 
place. Not even the dogs, 
seemed to be at home. 

‘ ‘ Mother ! ” we shouted, 
“where are you.^’’ 

“Sakes-a-live! W’at de 
matter wid you chill uns?’* 
“O Aunt Becky!” we cried, “the raiders — 
the Yankees are coming — they’re ’most here! 
Where’s mother?” 



‘Hiding things.’ 



THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


123 


Aunt Becky gasped, but lost no time. 

“Moses! Charlet! you light out ’cross de 
branch ter Marse Zack’s en tell Miss Em’ly en 
Miss Melie dat de raiders is hyer — bin chasin’ 
de chillun froo de woods fum school.” 

The little darkies disappeared down the road, 
and we waited impatiently for a sight of our 
mother returning. 

Of course Aunt Becky’s wild message had 
terrified mother and Aunt Melie, and they came 
home with a fear that some dreadful thing had 
happened. 

But they had no time to spare. The after- 
noon was almost gone and many things had to be 
done, for we expected the raiders in the night. 

You would have laughed if you had seen us 
hiding things. Aunt Becky took the silver under 
her charge, and no one ever knew where she hid 
it. Mother put her money-bags on under her 
dress-skirts. We tucked ham and potatoes 
and flour and the brown sugar, which was the 


124 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


best we had, into the queerest places. Many 
of them were buried under the hay in the barn, 
some were stowed away in the cotton-gin house; 
there were even some prickly shrubs in the yard 
that hid some of our treasures. 

By the time night had come our home looked 
very poor and barren. There was not a nice 
thing to be found anywhere. A few old books 
were left and a few of our poorest clothes and 
dishes and such things, which we thought would 
mislead the raiders and make them think we had 
nothing better, and which they would not be 
tempted to take away from us. 

We were not at all sure that we should have a 
house left over our heads by the time morning 
came, so we watched the sun set and the dark- 
ness come, with great fear. 

. The darkies gathered into their cabins very 
early in the evening, and the cook had to have 
company on the way from the kitchen to the 
house as she brought in the supper. As bed- 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


125 


time drew near, mother waited to see Aunt 
Becky and Charlotte start for their cabins, after 
they had arranged the beds. Mother dreaded 
to have them go, for then she would be left alone 
in the house with her widowed sister and the 
children. 

After they had been sitting silent for a little 
while Aunt Becky said: “Charlet, I reckon 
yer better button dat do’ en fix yer pallit. Yer 
don’t spec’ I gwine outen dis house dis night, 
does yer, en leave Miss Em’ly en de chillun 
hyer by deyse’ves?” 

Mother looked glad, but said nothing, and 
Charlotte rose to button the door and fix her 
“pallit,” which meant a quilt on the floor. 

We children were to sleep in the next room 
on a trundle-bed and lounge, as we did not dare 
to go up stairs to our accustomed places. 

“I bin primin’ up de ole blunderbuss,” Aunt 
Becky said. “Me en de muskit’s got ter fight 
it out twixt us dis night.” 


126 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


She took the old rusty gun down from a nail 
in the dining-room, where it had hung since 
grandfather put it there years before, saying, 
as he did so, that it was “no good,’’ To Aunt 
Becky it was equal to a cannon, and she brought 
it in with great pride and stood it near the 
chimney; then she sat on the floor beside it and 
puckered her face to make it look brave and 
stern. 

During that long evening we talked at times; 
then we would sit quite still for a while, and each 
was trying hard not to listen to any little sound 
outside. But we all started if there was a flutter 
in the hen-house, or a neigh in the horse-lot, 
or a bark in the yard. 

I do not know how I ever got to sleep that 
night, for I was never so frightened and excited 
in my life, but I did fall into a sound sleep and 
forgot all about the raiders. 

About midnight we were all startled by a loud 
noise and a cry “ Sakes-a-live ! Dar dey is!’* 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 127 

It was true — they were there. We could 
hear their dreadful voices and the stamping 
of their horses’ feet outside our gate. 

“Don’t you be skeered,” Aunt Becky said, 
faintly; “me en de muskit’s hyer.” 

“Hello!” they shouted at the gate, and we 
expected every moment that they would come 
right into the house, horses and all, and ride 
over us and then burn us. 

We huddled close together in mother’s room 
and listened to those awful “Hellos!” This was 
war, indeed, and our enemies were at our very 
gates. 

“Don’t be afraid, children,” mother said. 
“God will stay with us now.” 

This must have helped Aunt Becky, for she 
sprang to her feet and made the one great effort 
of her life. She snatched the old musket from 
the corner, threw it over her shoulder, and before 
any one knew what she was doing she had un- 
buttoned the door and stepped on to the back 


128 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


porch. It seemed so terrible to think of her 
facing those raiders alone and in the dark! 

In an instant we heard a snap, then a bang, 
then a loud cry from Aunt Becky: “Dar, now, 
I done kilt him!” Then the musket fell to the 
floor and all was still on the porch. It was a 
tragic moment for us, and we hid our faces on the 
bed, too horrified to cry or speak. 

“Hello there! Stop that gun or we’ll fire. 
We don’t want to fight. ” 

There was no answer from Aunt Becky, and 
mother saw that somebody must speak or the 
raiders would be in the house in a moment. So 
she stepped to the door through which Aunt 
Becky had just passed, and said, “What do 
you want?” 

“Where’s the next ’crick’? our horses want 
water,” was the answer. 

“Follow the road straight ahead for half a 
mile,” mother said. 

There was a quick-spoken order and away 



“ ‘ Oh, Aunt Becky ! ’ we cried, ‘ the Raiders ! ’ ” 






THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 129 

they went. We listened to the galloping steps, 
the halloos and the snatches of song, as they 
grew fainter and fainter and at last died away. 

Could it be true that the midnight raid had 
ended so peaceably ; that nothing would happen ? 

Now that they were gone and Aunt Becky had 
not returned, we began to wonder what had be- 
come of her. We even went to the door and 
called her as loudly as we dared, but there was 
no answer. She had gone so suddenly from the 
porch after the musket had been fired, and there 
was not a trace of her that we could see or hear 
anywhere. 

To my mind there was but one thing that could 
have happened to her. She had been stolen and 
carried off by the raiders. I sobbed out this 
thought to the bed-clothes, but did not tell it to 
any one else. 

With the first light of morning we rushed from 
the house to rouse the darkies, and to set every- 
body looking for Aunt Becky. We peered under 


130 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


the house, and in the inside chimney corners. I 
flew to the chicken-house; perhaps she had gone 
there to take care of the chickens; but I saw no 
sign of her. 

Some of the darkies had even started off down 
the road that the raiders took, and by the time 
the sun came up, the whole farm was in commo- 
tion. At last, just as we were looking under the 
back steps for the third time, some one shouted, 
“Dar she is! Dar’s Aunt Becky!’’ 

Sure enough, there she was, walking slowly 
and stiffly along the path which led from the 
fields, past the cabins, to the house. Aunt 
Becky looked very cross and sour, and would not 
raise her eyes at first. But we were all so glad 
to see her that she could not stay cross long. 
Mother hurried to meet her, and said. 
“What’s the matter, Becky? Where have you 
been ? We’ve been so frightened about you. ” 

“ Is dey gone ?” was the answer. 

“Long ago; they didn’t stay but a minute oi 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


131 


two after you fired. But where have you been ? ** 
For a while Aunt Becky would not say any 
thing, but after a little she seated herself on the 
back steps, and it seemed as if every one of her 
bones creaked as she did so, 

“Wus dey air dead sojer roun’ de gate dis 
mawnin’.?’’ she asked. There was a twinkle 
in her eyes that made us laugh. Then she went 
on, “W’en I got out on dat po’ch las* night, I 
says ter myse*f, ‘Now*s yer time, Becky.’ 

“Wid dat I riz up de ole muskit en pult de 
trigger. Well, honey, de bang er dat muskit wus 
des zackly lak jedgment day. ‘Now,’ I says ter 
myse’f, ‘ yer done it, Becky. Dey’s er dead man 
out yander all longer you.’ En wid dat I 
tuck’n start fer de fiel’. I tore’ long da pa’f 
down pas’ de fig bushes en yaller Jake’s cabin, 
tell I got ter de wheatfiel,’ den I kep’ er run- 
nin’ en runnin,’ en all de time de Lord wus 
axin’ me, ‘Whar ’bouts dat dead sojer, Becky?’ 
“I couldn’t hear nuthin’ but dat gun, en I 


13 !^ 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


couldn’t see nuthin’ but de man, en all de time 
de Lord wus alter me swif’er dan de win’. 

“W’iles I wuz gwine on dis waya, all uv er 
suddint sump’n stop me. I des thought ter 
myse’f , ‘ De Lord’s done trip yer up now. ’ En 
den I didn’t know nuthin’ more fer er spell. 
Nex’ thing I knowed hit look lak I wuz layin’ 
some’rs on de groun’, en w’en I tuck er good look 
roun’, sho nuff, dar I wuz flat on my back in de 
bottom er de ole rabbit gulley. 

“ I riz up on one arm en hit look lak ev’y bone 
in it ’gun ter crack. Den I prop up on t’er arm, 
en dat wuz wus’n de fust one. I been ev’y livin’ 
minute sence day broke gittin’ on my feet en 
climbin’ outen dat gulley. Yer needn’t be 
laughin’ at me, honey, — ^hit gives me er spell 
er de dry grins.” 

But we couldn’t help it. To think of our 
dear, fat Aunt Becky racing off through the 
fields, and tumbling into the rabbit gulley, was 
too much for us all. 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


133 


“De wust uv it all is, I didn’t put no bullit 
in de muskit nohow. I cle’r fergot tell I come 
’long todes de house jes’ now. I didn’t have 
none, so I tuck’n put in er little rock stidder 
de bullit.” 

Aunt Becky rubbed her stiff arms while we 
laughed. 

“After all!” mother said, “the raiders have 
taken something for us to remember them by. 
Monday is gone, and two of the mules.” Mon- 
day was one of our seven-days-of-the-week 
darkies, and he and the two mules had deserted 
us and become raiderst 

The morning had half passed when we heard 
a loud noise up the “big road,” and saw a squad 
of soldiers tearing along towards the house. 
They came so fast that we had not time to be 
frightened before we saw them rein their tired, 
dusty mules and horses before our gate. Aunt 
Becky did not shoulder the musket this time, 
but she stood quietly by mother’s side. 


134 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


The officer in command came up the walk, 
and stood at the foot of the steps. We expected 
to hear him say, “You are all my prisoners,” 
but he did not. He bowed pleasantly, and said : 

“Madam, will you be so kind as to give us 
something to eat, and to let us rest awhile out- 
side?” 

Mother invited him in, but he thanked her, 
and said that none of the soldiers should enter 
the house. Here was excitement enough. This 
time we could see in broad daylight what the 
raiders looked like. It was true that their caps 
hid their horns, and I thought these horns must 
be quite small, since they did not stick up through 
those little flat caps. They had guns and can- 
teens and knapsacks, and looked very grand to 
me, in spite of their dirt and holes. 

I could not understand why they called us all 
“Johnnie,” girls and boys, black and white, all 
alike, I did not know, then, that the whole 
South was named “Johnnie.” 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


135 


It took much work and hurry to prepare a 
dinner for so many men, and we children were 
sent to every hen and guinea nest, that we could 
find, for eggs. Some hams, flour, potatoes, 
and sugar were brought out secretly from their 
hiding-places, and our good Aunt Minnie cooked 
her very best. 

Two tables were set, one in the kitchen and 
one in the dining-room, and mother decided to 
put her silver knives, forks and spoons on the 
table, and make it look as well as possible. 
The officer had acted like a gentleman, and she 
meant to treat him like one. It took a long 
while to make Aunt Becky consent to this, and 
to bring the silver from its hiding-place. 

“Dey won’t be nare livin’ piece lef’,” she 
declared, when she brought it in. 

I think some of the soldiers would have liked 
to search the house, but the officer had given 
his word that the house should not be entered, 
and he kept it. 


136 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


When the dinner was ready, he ordered some 
of the soldiers into the kitchen to the table set 
there, and the others he led into the dining- 
room with him. They filed into the room in 
regular soldier style, and seated themselves, 
with the officer at the head of the table. 

Aunt Becky stood behind his chair, with her 
eyes roving fiercely all over the table every 
minute. She had on a clean apron and ‘‘head- 
han’kercher,’’ and she waited upon the raiders 
in fine style. The officer laughed when he knew 
that we called them raiders. 

What are raiders he said to me. 

“Men who steal and kill people,” I ansv/ered, 
innocently, and added, “and they have horns 
on their heads.” 

He was just about to give me a chance to look 
for his horns, when a loud scream from Aunt 
Becky stopped him. “He’s got de teaspoon!” 
and in an instant she pounced upon one of the 
soldiers, and held him fast. The officer looked 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


137 


very angry, and commanded the thief to put back 
the spoon upon the table, and to go out to the 
porch and stand there. 

When this was done. Aunt Becky allowed the 
dinner to go on, but nothing was half so pleasant 
after that, for the officer was very sorry that one 
of his men had acted so dishonorably. 

After the dinner was over, he went out to the 
front porch, and sat down alone. I followed 
him, without being invited, aijd he talked to me 
while his men fed and watered the mules and 
horses. 

“Little girl,’’ he said, — ^he never said “John- 
nie,” as his men did, — where is your papa?” 

“In the war,” I answered. 

I remember that he looked a little sad when I 
said this. 

“And is he living?” 

“Oh yes, and he writes us letters about all 
the battles.” 


“And have you any brothers ?” 


138 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


‘‘I had one, but he was in the war, too, and 
he is dead now. But don’t tell mamma that you 
know, for she never lets us speak of brother, it 
makes her cry so.” 

“No,” he said, touching my hair; “I under- 
stand, I will not tell her. But why did your 
mamma put her silver on the table today for 
such wicked people as raiders.^” 

“I don’t know. She would do it, and Aunt 
Becky told her that everything would be stolen, 
but mamma made Aunt Becky bring it out.” 

He laughed, then began feeling in his pocket, 
while I looked closely at his head, for I felt sure 
that I must have been mistaken about the horns, 
and I could not see a bump of any kind on his 
head. When he drew his hand from his pocket, 
he said : 

“Here is something for you, my dear. It 
belonged once t6 my little girl in the North. 
Keep it to remember your raiders. I shall 
never see you again. Soon the war will be over. 


THE FEDERAL RAIDERS 


139 


and your papa will come back to you, but you 
must not forget me.’* 

Mother came to the doorway, as I slipped 
from his lap, and I held out my present to her. 
It was a necklace clasp with a ruby set in it. 

“Madam,’* he said, “we must be going. 
You have trusted me, and I thank you. ’* 

I heard no more, for I ran off to show my 
treasure. When he was gone, I saw that mother 
had been crying, and she held a little slip of 
paper in her hands with the officer’s name on it. 
She kept this slip many years, but it was finally 
lost. I still keep my treasure, and have wished 
many times that I could see again the captain 
of our raiders. 




ICKSBURG boys never lacked for excite- 



V ment. The great river rolled before them, 
and its capabilities were exhaustless. Steamers 
passed back and forth at all hours of the day and 
night, and it was seldom that several of them 
could not be found at the wharves, discharging 
or taking on cargo. And naturally the boys 
felt it belonged to them to see that everything 
was done right. No freight could be properly 
transferred without their presence. No pas- 
senger left the boat without the consciousness 
of being under close surveilllance. 

The wharves were the common property of the 
boys, and woe to the wharfinger who said them 
nay. His life was henceforth a burden to him, 
and the juvenile ingenuity of the city was freely 


140 


CAPTAIN NEWT 


141 


taxed in his behalf. But usually the wharfinger 
was a wise man in his generation, and freely 
conceded what he knew could not be withheld. 
There were many cozy nooks among the piles 
of freight and cotton-bales, and here the boys 
met to discuss the present and lay plans for the 
future, and generally the future oscillated be- 
tween steamboating and piracy. 

But when the early sixties saw the freight of 
steamers gradually change from cotton-bales 
and merchandise to soldiers and munitions of 
war, the ambition of the boys veered round to the 
possession of muskets and revolvers. Swim- 
ming contests and piratical schemes were forgotten 
in the quickly formed military company, and in 
marches and countermarches up and down the 
streets. 

The question of social distinction among the 
boys had long ago been settled, and those who 
could out-swim, out-dive and out-run the others 
had taken easy precedence. 


142 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


So it was that ragged Newt Bixby, whose 
father had fired on the River Belle and kter 
joined the Union forces when war was declared, 
became leader, and Charlie Calhoun second in 
command. Charlie’s father was a colonel in 
the — th Mississippi, and was with Lee in Vir- 
ginia. Charlie was a born aristocrat, and had 
been “raised” on a large sugar plantation, 
where there were hundreds of negroes who were 
always ready to obey the slightest wish of 
ihe “young mas’r.” He had thus naturally 
acquired a haughty manner, but was generous, 
brave and noble in disposition, and a universal 
favorite with the boys. His knowledge of tactics 
and military matters seemed wonderful to the 
boys, and it was not long before it became a 
saying among them that Charlie furnished the 
brains and Newt the dash for the company. 

Though impulsive. Newt was a prudent boy. 
He was in an intensely southern town, where 
the feeling was wholly against the North. Be- 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


143 


sides, his mother’s employment was fine em- 
broidery, and her employers were the wives and 
daughters of Confederate soldiers. They had 
been good friends, and their boys were his chums 
and comrades. It could do no good, and might 
occasion a great deal of harm, for him to give 
utterance to his real feelings. No one knew 
positively where his father had gone, though it 
was suspected. Among his associates Newt was 
occasionally called “Yank,” but rather in play- 
ful raillery than anger. 

All the boys’ leisure was now spent in drills 
and manoeuvres. There were few able men in 
Ihe city outside the garrison. Even the older 
boys were on duty with the guard, or away in 
the regular army. Provisions were getting 
scarce as the river communications began to 
close up, and every face grew anxious and ex- 
pectant. The boys forgot their years, and went 
into the drill with the earnestness of those who 
expected to be called to the front at any time. 


144 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


But in the hearts of two of the company — Newt’s 
and a boy named Tad Baker — the front meant 
the Union army. 

Gradually the gunboats of the enemy crept 
toward the city, until the entire water-front was 
occupied. Then soldiers and batteries seemed 
to spring up from the land-sides, and the city 
awoke to the fact that it was besieged. It could 
be only temporary, of course, for were there not 
twen‘y-seven thousand of the bravest of the 
Southern army on guard? What mattered it 
how superior were the forces of the enemy ? 

But it became terribly real when the bom- 
bardment commenced. The previous silence 
had seemed oppressive, and when it was suddenly 
broken by the thundering crashes of artillery 
which made the ground shake and the very 
foundations of the buildings tremble, it seemed 
as if the end of things had come, in truth. The 
sky was cob-webbed with the criss-crossing red 
lines streaming from flying bomb-shells. Broken 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


145 


window-glass rattled upon the side-walks, and a 
hail-storm of iron fragments descended upon the 
city. 

No wonder the non-combatants frantically 
sought a place of safety ; cellars, strong buildings, 
anything which promised shelter. But a few 
hours showed them how futile such shelter was. 
The screaming shells and heavy masses of iron 
had little respect for frame buildings and stone 
walls. 

All through the day they crouched trembling, 
and not till the darkness put an end to the up- 
roar did they venture forth to ascertain the 
damage done. 

As the days went by, and week followed week 
in slow, dreadful suspense, the first unreasoning 
fear began to wear off, and the course of a shriek- 
ing shell was watched with a tolerably correct 
calculation of its probable fall. 

Holes, or tunnels, were dug in the perpendic- 
ular clay banks back of the city, and whenevei 


146 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


the bombardment recommenced, the women and 
children hurried to them for safety. The caves 
were branched like the letter Y, and would hold 
from ten to thirty persons. As there were up- 
ward of three thousand non-combatants in the 
city, it took a long line of caves to accommodate 
them. 

Before the end of the six weeks* siege, many 
had become so used to the noise of the shells 
that they retreated very leisurely to the caves 
when the firing recommenced. One eye, how- 
ever, was always kept warily on the heavens. 

During the first few days the Vicksburg 
Cadets were very prompt in their attendance 
upon the caves, but one afternoon, as a sudden 
shower of iron hail sent every one hurrying from 
the city. Captain Newt Bixby communicated 
with his oflScers and, with their aid, managed 
to collect most of the company outside the caves. 

“Soldiers must not be children!’* he shouted, 
his clear young voice rising above the din of the 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


147 


flying shells. ‘‘If any of the boys want to enter 
the caves, let them go. We don’t want them. 
We have had our scare, and now it is time to 
show ourselves worthy of our fathers and brothers. 
All the cadets who remain in the ranks now must 
do it with the free will of soldiers who are ready 
to die with their comrades.” 

He paused a moment, but no one stirred. 

‘Good!” he exclaimed, *‘Now, boys, there 
are nearly sixty of us, and I think we can be as 
good soldiers as some boys who have entered the 
army. We are too young for that, so we must 
look after the duties our fathers have been obliged 
to leave. Corporal Johnson will deploy twenty 
men between the caves and the city to assist such 
as need it, while the rest of us will return to the 
streets and do what we can to help stragglers 
and to prevent fires,” 

Even as he spoke, there came a wild shriek 
from a group of women who were hurrying to- 
ward one of the more distant caves. A fragment 


148 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


of shell had struck one of their number and torn 
away part of her left arm. A small child held 
by that arm had fallen to the ground, apparently 
unhurt. At the same moment the storm of 
shell increased, and the forms of the woman and 
her child could hardly be seen for the clouds of 
dust. The rest of the women fled shrieking to 
the caves, and most of the spectators quickly 
followed their example. Even the Cadets 
wavered for a moment as the iron rain began 
to fall about them. But only for a moment. 
Then Captain Newt Bixby’s voice was heard 
forming the men into compact body, and as they 
marched back to the city. Corporal Johnson and 
one of his men were seen moving the wounded 
woman to the nearest cave. 

Reaching the center of the desolate city, the 
boys separated into squads and sought different 
parts of the town. Some of the inhabitants still 
remained in their homes, and occasionally a 
store door was found open and its proprietor 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


149 


peering from behind a pile of barrels or boxes. 
During the afternoon several incipient fires were 
put out, and a bomb taken care of before it had 
time to explode. 

After a few weeks the boys became accustomed 
to the noise of battle and could hear the shells 
whistle by with supreme indifference. The ex- 
citement of action they found to be immeasur- 
ably preferable to being half-smothered in the 
caves. Several of their number had been more 
or less hurt, and brave Corporal Johnson had 
met a soldier’s death. 

The city was becoming more and more desolate 
every day. Most of the grocery and provision 
stores were closed. They had nothing left to 
sell. Flour was $200. a barrel, corn $10. a bushel, 
bacon $5. a pound, and coffee and poultry not to 
be had at any price. Mule-meat had to take 
the place of poultry beef and mutton. 

The streets were littered with broken shells 
and bombs. Here and there a citizen, for want 


150 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


of other employment, had gathered a ton or 
more of broken iron and piled it up in his 
yard. The strange pyramids were ghastly re- 
minders of the times. There were no newspapers 
or visitors to give news of the outside world, 
nothing but the incessant bomb-shelling from 
the implacable circle outside. The streets were 
deserted, fruit and candy-booths a rtiing of the 
past; the non-combatants had no energy for 
anything but to walk back and forth, back and 
forth — and wait. 

Hardly an entire window-pane remained in 
the city. Most of the chimneys were more or 
less demolished. Nearly all of the buildings 
had great ragged holes torn through the boarding 
and plaster. But the people were getting used 
to it. It took an unusually severe tempest of 
shell to start them leisurely for the caves, to 
which a few scattering shot had formerly sent 
them skurrying. 

One day Captain Newt Bixby and his men 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


151 


saw a tongue of flame shoot up from one of the 
public buildings near the wharves. It was in 
one of the most exposed situations, and under 
the direct fire of the gunboats. The flame was 
on the roof, and, mnlfess^ it ceuld be extinguished, 
would undoubtedly destroy the building and all 
the valuable papers within. There were no 
means of entrance, as the edifice had been closed 
since the beginning of the siege, and the keys 
were in the possession of the commandant of 
the garrison, half-a-mile away. 

But the Vicksburg Cadets had been taking 
severe lessons in a very practical school, and 
veteran firemen could not have been more prompt 
and eflScacious. Like many other Southern 
towns, Vicksburg was well-supplied with shade 
trees. Several of these threw their arms directly 
over the buidling. Like squirrels the boys went 
up the trees, and were soon on the roof fighting 
the fire. It had made little headway, and the 
boys extinguished it before help arrived from the 


152 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


garrison. In the excitement little attention had 
been paid to the storm of shell, but when the 
soldiers of the fort slowly descended into the 
now open building, they assisted the Cadets in 
bearing away three of their number. 

The next day General Lamb sent for Newt 
Bixby and Charlie Calhoun. When they were 
ushered into his presence, he turned from the 
group of officers he was conversing with and 
regarded them earnestly. Newt had an ugly 
scar from an exploding shell across his cheek, 
while one of Charlie’s arms was in a sling. 

After a short silence the General said in half- 
sad, half-musing tones: 

“Strange that our cause should waver when 
even the children act the part of veterans.” 
Then, more briskly: “I have been hearing 
wonderful reports of you, my lads. If your 
strength was equal to your courage, I would 
have you join the river expedition to-night. 
Some times a youngster’s agility and quick wit 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


153 


are of as much service as the greater strength 
of a man.” 

“Try us,” cried Charlie. 

Newt’s breath came a little more quickly. 
So far his work had not clashed with his Union 
principles, and he had been able to give to it his 
whole heart and strength — but now? 

Then came another thought. His mother was 
working at the home of one of her employers, 
and would be there for months yet. She would 
not need him. He had been staying at the house 
of a boy friend, and for weeks his one great 
thought had been to escape through the block- 
ade to his father in the Union army. He would 
be able to find some service there. 

Perhaps this river expedition offered him the 
very opportunity he sought. 

“Yes, try us,” he said, less enthusiastically 
but no less firmly then Charlie. 

The general smiled. 

“All in good time, my boys. You seem to 


154 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


have the soldiers’ ambition of being rewarded 
for one brave deed with the opportunity of en- 
countering still greater perils. But I summoned 
you for a different purpose. Are there any good 
swimmers in your company ? I mean boys who 
could swim a mile, and pass half the time under 
water if necessary. They will have to pick 
their way in the dark, dodge gunboats and river 
sentries, meet deadly perils, and, if they succeed, 
be rewarded with the consciousness of having 
done what they could for their cause.” 

"While he was speaking, the boys listened 
with flushed cheeks, and they now pressed for- 
ward eagerly. But as the general nodded sig- 
nificantly at Charlie’s useless arm, the latter 
drew back in confusion. 

“Never mind, my boy, I have other work that 
you can do. So you understand the river 
thoroughly ? ” he continued, turning to Newt, 
and speaking in a quick, sharp voice. 

“He’s the best swimmer on the river, and can 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


155 


swim under water ’most as well as a fish,” said 
Charlie, before Newt had time to reply. 

The general looked pleased. 

“I think you are the man we want. The 
success of the enterprise means more than 
you could understand. I have been cautioned 
against entrusting the affair to a boy, but I think 
a sharp lad can pass the lines with less difficulty 
than a man. You may select two of the best 
swimmers in the company to accompany you, 
and report to me here to-night, at twelve o’clock, 
for instructions. In the meantime I would 
advise you to get as much sleep as you can. ” 

As he turned away, and resumed his conver- 
sation with the officers, the boys concluded that 
the audience was over and slowly left the room. 
In Newt’s eyes was a troubled expression, and 
he had half a mind to go back and make a clean 
breast of it to the general. But the thought 
of meeting his father and joining the Union cause 
deterred him. Only, he would see that no harm 


U6 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


came to these people who were trusting him, 
through their confidence. 

When they reached the corner where they 
must separate, the boys’ hands met for a moment. 

“Perhaps we shall not see each other again,” 
said Charlie soberly. 

“It’ll be a tight squeeze,” replied Newt; 
“but I shall be as careful as I can without shirk- 
ing. And — er — no matter what happens, Charlie, 
if you knew all I don’t think you’d ever blame 
me. 

Late in the afternoon a dark mass of clouds 
began to overspread the sky, and when Newt 
and the two other boys he had selected went to 
the general’s quarters for instruction, they had 
to literally feel their way. A strong wind was 
blowing, and a drizzling rain had set in from 
the southeast. It would be a bad night. 

The general was writing when they entered, 
but presently turned from his desk. 

“ It will be a terrible night, ” he said,- abruptly, 
“ Do you think you can reach Cane Point ? ” 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


157 


The boys started. Cane Point was over a 
mile down the stream, and surrounded with 
such a network of snags and sunken limbs and 
rocks that it was considered dangerous, even by 
daylight. 

“It’ll be an awful job to swim ’ginst the wind 
that far,” said one of the boys, looking white. 

“ I agree with you, ” said the general. “ Besides, 
you can do better service here, fighting fire. 
And do you two wish to risk your lives on the 
river?” turning to Newt and his companion. 

“If you will let us,” they answered. 

“ Very well. Here are two despatches, exactly 
alike. If one of you fails, the other may succeed. 
You will go to the little cabin under the three 
live oaks and give the papers to the cripple you 
will find there. If you succeed, show a light 
from Live Oak Hill. A lantern swung in a half 
circle will answer. You had better not attempt 
to return until the siege is raised.” He paused 
a moment, then added in an impressive voice: 


158 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


“The papers must not be seen by the enemy, 
and if necessary you must die yourselves to 
insure their destruction. Now go.” 

The boys made their way slowly along until 
they reached the nearest wharf. The wind was 
blowing fiercely in their faces and they could hear 
the beat of the waves against the spiles. Over- 
head, everything was inky black, except for the 
occasional streaks of fire across the heavens. 

In spite of their years, and the excitement of 
the moment, the boys fully realized the peril 
of the undertaking, and made every preparation to 
meet it. Their clothing was removed and care- 
fully placed under a pile of lumber. It did not 
occur to them that they would probably never 
see it again, even should the trip be successful. 
Then fastening the water-proof bags containing 
the despatches more securely about their necks, 
they dropped quietly into the river and disap- 
peared in the darkness. 

There was little of the excitement of battle 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


159 


about it; nothing but the solid wall of blackness 
around, which was now and then cut by a flash, 
showing glimpses of the black hulls of the silent 
watch-dogs before them. Sometimes the flashes 
were followed by such deafening, reverberating 
crashes that the boys were obliged to clinch their 
teeth firmly to keep from turning back to the 
wharf. 

The current was in their favor, but the wind 
against them. However, it served to deaden 
the sound of the waves against their faces. As 
they neared the line of gimboats, they swam as 
lightly as possible, keeping all but their faces 
under water. The darkness was full of ears 
now, and even the wind and waves could not 
smother unusual sounds. One by one they 
felt, rather than saw, the dark hulls glide by. 
Frequently they had to sink under water as a 
sudden flash showed sentinel forms within a few 
yards. A dozen times they were on the point 
of being discovered, but escaped as by a seeming 


160 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


miracle. Their progress was slow, laborious and 
uncertain. Sometimes their hands would encount- 
er the side of a vessel before they were aware of 
its vicinity. Since leaving the wharf neither had 
dared to speak. In spite of its seeming desolation, 
the river was keenly alert. Once or twice Newt 
fancied from his companion’s labored breathing 
that he was becoming exhausted. 

Suddenly, as they were moving along side by 
side, a great light flashed upon them from the 
deck of a vessel close by, and a dozen stern faces 
met their eyes. 

The boys sank instantly, and as they disap- 
peared from sight, a shower of bullets rained 
upon the water. Second after second passed, 
and a glimpse of a white face was seen several 
rods down the river and was met by another 
patter of bullets. A little to the right another 
white face was seen for an instant and received 
a similar welcome. Several minutes passed, 
and a dark spot appeared still lower down. A 



‘ I have been hearing wonderful reports of you my lads.’ ” 




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REACHED THE UNION LINES 161 

perfect storm of bullets almost instantly fell 
about it. 

A few seconds, and then somebody said, “I 
guess they’re done for.” The lights disappeared, 
and the vessel returned to its dark watchfulness. 

Hour after hour went by, and the storm in- 
creased in violence. Limbs were torn from the 
trees and hurled into the streets. The black 
expanse of the river gave no intimation of the 
silent enemy. His presence was swallowed up 
in the world of darkness. 

In his quarters the general paced up and down. 
He had reckoned much on the success of this 
enterprise. It meant much to the cause. In 
spite of its apparent impossibility, he had had 
hopes that the boys might succeed — ^had almost 
brought himself to believe that they would. 

But as the hours went by, he ceased to glance 
toward Live Oak Hill. The enterprise had 
failed, and the brave boys were at the bottom of 
the river. Well, they had met a soldier’s death. 


162 


HOW CAPTAIN NEWT 


and, somewhere, would find a soldier’s reward. 
Their fathers and brothers had met the same fate 
or probably would meet it in the near future. 

Suddenly, as he passed the window, he uttered 
an exclamation of joy. Surely there was a light 
on Live Oak Hill, a lantern being swung to and 
fro. Even as it moved, a brother officer entered 
the room with beaming face and the two grasped 
hands. 

Meanwhile a half-unconscious boy — only one 
— ^was being cared for by a tall man, who seemed 
to have forgotten his supposed crippled condition, 
as he moved quickly about the room. The 
boy was covered with bruises and cuts, and blood 
flowed freely from half-a-dozen wounds upon 
him. He looked as though he had been pounded 
from head to foot with jagged clubs. 

Out in the river was another boy floating on 
his back, his face just above the surface, watch- 
ing. Many times during the trip down had Newt 
thought how easy it would be for him to call to 


REACHED THE UNION LINES 


1€S 



‘Out on the river was another boy.” 

one of the gunboats, explain himself, and 
clamber on board. But there was his companion, 
nearly exhausted, who might need assistance. 
He could not desert him. 

He waited until he saw the tall man assist his 
friend to the little cabin, then turned and resumed 
his journey down the river. He had learned 
that a large Union encampment was a half mile 
below. 

The storm was now breaking and stars coming 
out in the sky. As he swam on, Newt unfastened 


164 


CAPTAIN NEWT 


the waterproof bag from his neck and dropped 
it into the river. He could not betray his friends, 
even though he would not help them. An hour 
later he was inside the Union lines. 




I T was the hottest day of the war summer of 

186^ The little Pennsylvania village of 

Buddford seemed to gasp for breath. The 

single street that wandered aimlessly from the 

store to the station was deserted. 

The familiar loungers on the piazza of the 

Keystone House had ceased to conduct the war. 

and had retreated to the shaded bar-room. 

At the station the rails seemed to burn the eye 

as they shone in the July sun. Michael Boyle, 

the track-walker’s boy, carefully avoided them 

as, with bare feet, he hurried up from the bridge. 

On he went, across the station platform, over 

the road, past the mill, where the tall elms gave 

a moment’s relief from the pitiless glare, to a low, 

rambling red house which seemed to crawl up 
165 


166 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

the hill-side. The woodbine shaded the door- 
way, where two little girls dressed in dainty 
Paris frocks, were tying up bouquets of wild 
flowers, in each of which they hid a little note. 

Mike stopped under the syringa bush, charmed 
with the picture. 

‘‘Sure, it’s like angels they look — the pair of 
them, in their soft, white, hanging things ! And 
to call the likes of thim ‘traitors’!” 

Mike’s warm heart throbbed as he felt he was 
their only friend. 

“Miss Janet!” he called, eagerly. 

The children sprang up with delighted eyes, 
th( younger one scattering a lapful of flowers as 
she caught the boy’s hand in hers, and drew him 
to the step. 

Mike pulled his straw hat from his stiff red 
hair, and wiped his forehead on his coarse shirt- 
sleeve. 

“ There’s a trainful of prisoners coming from 
the front. Miss Janet,” he said to the older girl. 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 167 

‘‘Yes, I know she said. “We were mak- 
ing onr bouquets before going to the gap.’' 

“Yes, miss, but they’re repairin’ the track 
jist before the bridge, and the train will have to 
stop. It’s due before long, and father says it 
may be delayed fifteen minutes. There’ll be a 
chance for you to spake to thim poor fellows, 
and to give thim some water. 

“ O Mike, you splendid, thoughtful boy,” 
cried Charlotte, impetuously. 

Janet could not speak. There was a great 
lump swelling in her throat, and her heart beat 
tumultuously. 

To speak to the prisoners, to minister to their 
wants, — men from her own loved South whom 
she had seen, day after day, huddled in box-cars, 
being carried to the Elmira prison! To tell 
them that she, too, was from Dixie; that her 
honored grandfather had died in defence of the 
Confederacy, and that her uncle was even now 
fighting under Lee ! 


1«8 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

What if some of the men should be from South 
Carolina, her mother’s State ? 

All through the summer the children had 
written pitiful little notes brimming over with 
zeal and love, and tying flowers around them, 
had thrown them into the closely packed door- 
ways of the cars as they wound slowly up the 
grade through the gap. 

The girls’ parents were in Europe, where the 
young mother was slowly recovering her health 
after the shock of her father’s death. Married 
to a Northern man long resident in the South, 
whose sympathies were divided between love of 
the Union and attachment to the fortunes of 
his adopted State, Mrs. Farnsleigh had lived on 
her father’s plantation on the Ashley, where 
the older children were born. 

Just before the war Mr. Farnsleigh’s business 
made it necessary for him to spend the winter 
in New York. Then came the firing on Sumter. 
Mr. Farnsleigh was convinced that the Southern 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 169 

cause was a righteous one, but he could not take 
up arms against the Union. 

Accordingly, he compromised, left his shipping 
business, and his four little girls as well, in the 
hands of his confidential clerk, Mr. Rawson, and 
took his invalid wife and their baby to England 
for the summer. 

“ It will be all over by autumn, ” they said. 

But it did not end with the autumn, nor the 
next. The children had spent the second sum- 
mer at Lake George, and the winters with 
an aunt in New York. Their mother’s delicate 
health required her absence in Europe, and she 
was too ill to have them with her. 

For this summer, 1863, Mr. Rawson had 
found them a place in a comfortable old house 
in the little village in the Pennsylvania mountains, 
and had left them there in charge of two trusty 
old servants. 

Janet and Charlotte were the eldest, and there 
were two little girls besides. Charlotte was very 


170 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

pretty, with her great brown, flashing eyes, and 
Janet, though she was plainer than her sister, had 
a certain distinguished air. 

The sentiment of the village was quite against 
the girls. Those were days of intense feeling, 
both North and South, and this feeling some- 
times included the weak with the strong. 

There were long afternoons in June when 
Janet and Charlotte would gladly have forgotten 
political differences and played with the children 
on the grass-grown village green; but they were 
never asked. 

So it had come about that Mike Boyle was 
their sole champion and friend. To him they 
had poured out their hopes and fears, sure always 
of sympathy. It was with a glad heart that Mike 
carried the welcome news about the coming 
prisoners that blazing summer day. 

“Mike,” said Janet, as soon as she could 
speak, “we must hurry. Charlotte, get our 
hats and our silver cups, and come along. Mike 
can get the pail at his house. ” 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 171 


It was half a mile from the station to the “S.” 
The worst of the walk would be over when they 
reached the first curve, as far as the heat was 
concerned, but they must cross the bridge, and 
Janet’s timid heart failed her as she thought of 
the dizzy height and precarious footing. 

Still, she stepped bravely on the bridge. 
Janet would scream at a cow, but could have 
died for an idea. 

A little relief from the sun came when they 
reached the first curve. There was always some 
air stirring through the gap. Here was Mike’s 
home, — a whitewashed shanty clinging to a rock, 
— while the garden, “six feet wide and a mile 
long,” as Mike described it after hoeing, followed 
the road-bed in both directions. 

The children waited while Mike went in to 
get the pail. At this point there were men at 
work on the track, a hand-car being hauled up 
on the bank. A rail had been taken up, and a 
new one had to be laid. Mike’s father, with a 


17« COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

flag in his hand, was crossing the bridge to stop 
the expected train. As the girls stepped on the 
first tie of the bridge the boss called out: 

“Here, Mike Boyle, that’s no place for girls! 
Come back, the whole of you!” 

Charlotte, turning, smiled into the forbidding 
face. 

“I can go where any boy can,” she said. 
“We’re not a bit afraid. Please say ‘yes,’ for 
we’re going anyway.” 

The boss laughed, and let them go on. 

“They’ll be all right,” grunted Silas Whit- 
more; “there’s no killing that girl. She crawled 
under a train in the station last week ’cause she 
was in a hurry.” 

There was no planking over the bridge. Char- 
lotte flitted from tie to tie, racing with Mike. 
Janet, with compressed lips and white face, 
followed her. It was not more than three 
hundred feet, yet it seemed a mile to the faint, 
terrified child; but the end came at last, and 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 17S 


Janet sank on the shaded bank, while Charlotte 
and Mike brought a brimming pail of water 
from a spring at the bottom of the ravine. 

“Hark!” said Charlotte, her eyes growing 
solemn and dark, as an engine and train turned 
the curve and stopped. 

The train was made up of box-cars. The 
Union officer in charge hurried out to see what 
was the matter, and the guard was drawn up 
along the side of the train. 

Mike brought the pail, and the girls, each with 
a cup in hand, stood beside him. The prisoners 
crowded to the open doors in the sides of the cars. 

They were wretched men — dirty, worn, hun- 
gry and dejected, and dressed in every variety 
of garments, from butternut jeans to a discarded 
Union uniform. 

“"W ater ? Hurrah ! Good for you, little ones ! 
Here, pass it up!” cried the men, as the children 
stood with their water-pail before the open door 
of one of the cars. 


174 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

Suddenly a stern voice from the inside of the 
car called, “Fall back from the door!” and a tall, 
dark-haired young man forced his way to the 
front. The men fell back respectfully. 

“How much water have you, boy.^^” he said, 
addressing Mike. 

There was something in the tone that thrilled 
Janet’s heart. She looked into the sad young 
face, and unconsciously assuming command, 
answered for Mike: “I am so sorry our pail 
holds so little, but it was all we could get!” 

A strange look came upon the young man’s 
face. The child’s voice carried him back years, 
to his now desolated home by the Ashley. 

He had had a sister, a beautiful, brilliant girl, 
full of spirits and sunshine; not at all like this 
pale-faced, blue-eyed child of the North; and 
yet this girl’s voice was curiously like Charlotte’s 
when anything grieved her! 

Charlotte, he had heard, was dead now — 
buried in a foreign land, the last of his family 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 175 


to go. What had he to look forward to? 
Imprisonment in the North, while every man 
was needed at the South. 

No; whatever the risk might be, he would take 
his chance to escape. If death were the alter 
native, it would not come too soon. 

“ Fall into line, my men. DonH push or hurry. 
There will be water and time enough for all.’’ 

He was still their beloved young oflScer, 
though he was in tatters. The men willingly 
obeyed him. Back and forth the cups flew, 
as the men filed slowly past — a dismal proces- 
sion. 

“T was thirsty and ye gave me drink.’ Do 
you-uns know Who said that.^” exclaimed a 
lank Tennessee exhorter among the prisoners as 
he limped past the door. 

“We are proud to do it. We are from the 
South!” said Janet, her eyes filled with happy 
tears. 

The news spread through the car. “From 


176 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 


home? Those children? Of course they are! 
You could tell it!’’ 

The men forgot their woes in blessing their 
little allies. 

The guard, chatting together, saw the child, 
and although it was against orders to allow any 
one to communicate with the prisoners, they 
were humane, and overlooked it. 

The water was gone. Charlotte and Mike 
were busy answering questions, regardless of 
the statute which says that “Whosoever holds 
correspondence with the enemy shall suffer 
death or such other punishment as a court 
martial may direct,” when Janet saw the young 
oflScer move to the empty doorway on the other 
side of the car. 

Instinctively she knew that he was planning an 
escape — a hopeless one, she knew, that must 
result in death. She made a dash between the 
cars, and crept up to the opposite doorway. 

The captured officer was looking keenly 



“ Back and forth the cup flew.” 



COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 177 


down into the ravine. The guard — all but two 
or three soldiers well in advance — ^were on the 
other side of the road. 

One jump, a short run, and he could make a 
dash for the river. What was that to a trained 
athelete ? It would seem like the old days at the 
University of Virginia. He might escape the 
eyes of the guard, and there might be people 
kind enough to shelter him till the search was 
over. 

He was aoout to spring, when an imploring 
voice behind him said: 

“Don’t! don’t! You’ll surely be caught and 
shot! Even if you get to the river they’ll spread 
the alarm, and the whole village will be out. 
There is no one to take you in, no, not one!” 

That voice again? Against his resolution it 
held the young man back. The tears rolled 
down Janet’s cheeks as she looked in his face. 
If mamma had been very ill, and were starving 
and heart-broken, she would look just like this 
young man! 


178 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

“Ah, I would help you if I could,” Janet went 
on, in an agonized voice, “but indeed, indeed I 
cannot! Go on to Elmira. You will be well 
treated there, and as you are an officer you will 
soon be exchanged.” 

“God bless you, my child. It was madness! 
What is your name ?” 

“Janet,” she said, softly, through her tears. 
Here the whistle sounded. 

“Janet!” called a clear voice; “here are the 
flowers!” 

It was Charlotte, with her arms full of bou- 
quets. 

“Throw them into the doorway, Charlotte,” 
called Janet. 

The officer stood motionless. Had tne years 
rolled back.?^ Was not that graceful child in 
white and scarlet his sister Charlotte ? He 
looked about him, and the dream vanished; 
but the resemblance and the name ? 

The train began to move slowly. The men 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY ITD 

crowded to the door, 
waving their flowers 
and calling out good- 
bys. Charlotte sprang 
on the abutment of 
the bridge, and waving 
her scarlet sash, began 
to sing in a sweet, 
clear voice, ‘‘ Way down 
South in Dixie!’’ 

The men took up 
the refrain, “Away, 
away!” so gayly that 
one would have thought 
it anything but a train- 
load of captives bound Charlotte waving her scarlet sash. 

northward to prison. “Captain,” said one 
of the men, as they slowly rounded the “S,” 
‘‘ those children left this cup in the car.” 

“Give it to me,” said the oflScer. 

He knew the cup, however, before he read 



180 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

the inscription upon it: “Charlotte Fairfax 
Dunwoodie, 1834. ’’ 

Yes, this was Charlotte’s cup, and those were 
Charlotte’s children! The oldest, Janet, had 
been named for their mother. As for the little 
one, Charlotte, he laughed aloud as he recalled 
that fearless figure upon the abutment, the 
tangled hair thrown back, the rich, glowing 
face, the fiery abandon with which she waved 
and sang “Dixie.” 

There was something to live for now, some- 
thing left to love. He had forgotten his sister’s 
children, or only thought of them as babies 
travelling abroad with their father. 

“Well, captain,” said one of the men at last, 
who felt that something unusual was taking 
place, “can you make out the name?” 

The captain’s face lighted with one of his 
rare but sweet smiles 

“Charlotte Fairfax Dunwoodie,” he read 
again, this time aloud. 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 181 

‘^Boys,’’ he answered, “the owner of this cup 
was my sister, and those were her children. I 
will keep the cup till I find them again!’’ 

Here was something to talk about, and the 
prisoners forgot their present fatigue and coming 
imprisonment in this absorbing topic. Captain 
Paul Dunwoodie treasured each one of the little 
notes which the children had hidden in the bou- 
quets, and there was many a smile and a tear 
as the childish missives were read. 

“‘Twern’t no chance, boys,” said the Tennes- 
see exhorter, “that led they-uns down to this 
train and car. ‘Twas the hand of the Lord. ” 

That night, at Elmira, when the prisoners 
were searched and registered, Dunwoodie gave 
up his cup, telling his story briefly. 

“You shall have it back when you are ex- 
changed,” said the oflScer in charge. 

“May I keep these notes ?” Dunwoodie said 
faintly, for he found it hard to ask a favor. 

The oflScer read them over. His own little 


18 « COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

girls were sleeping safely in Boston, under a 
loving mother’s care. He thought of those other 
children, alone, unhappy and in an unfriendly 
land, but doing and daring for what they believed 
to be right, and his lip twitched under his brown 
mustache. 

“They’re full of disloyal sentiments,” he said, 
smiling, “but I guess it won’t matter.” 

It was the second time that day that the nation, 
stong in its righteousness, had tolerated treason ! 

So Paul Dunwoodie had his little notes for 
bookmarks in his Testament. The book opened 
itself, where one sweet note of Charlotte’s nestled, 
and one could read on the page, “Their angels 
do always behold the face of my Father which is 
in heaven. ” 

The curve soon hid the train from the children’s 
view, and they turned to go home, their hearts 
filled with exultation. 

“Charlotte,” said the careful Janet, “you 
must have left your cup on the car!” 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 183 

Charlotte looked contrite. It had been a 
christening present to her mother, and she had 
given it to her little daughter, with her name, 
and now it was gone! 

“Well,’^ said Charlotte, “it was in a good 
cause!’’ 

With Mike’s father to hold her hand, Janet 
recrossed the bridge with comparative ease. 
Charlotte followed, beating the roll-call with 
remarkable precision upon the bottom of the 
upturned tin-pail. Drumming was one of her 
accomplishments, and she owned a fine snare- 
drum, which was the envy of the village boys. 
The workmen had wheeled back their hand-car, 
and were about to return to the station. 

“Jump on,” said the boss, kindly, to Janet. 
“You look pretty tired. You ain’t so strong 
as your sister.?^” 

“No,” said Janet, gratefully. “I had a fever 
in the winter. ” 

“She has them every year,” said Charlotte, 


184 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

proudly, “a different one each time! There 
is not a girl in New York has had as many fevers 
as Janet 

The men laughed, and Janet blushed. 

“Good-by, Mike,’^ called the children, as 
Mike turned to his own door. “ Come to- 
morrow. ” 

The hand-car glided off, and the station was 
soon reached. 

“Let’s wait for the train from Elmira,” said 
Charlotte. “It will be in soon. Perhaps some 
one will get off here.” 

Some one did. It was Mr. Rawson coming 
from New York. 

“Well, my dears,” he said, in his precise 
way, “I have brought you something better than 
candies this time. Your father has taken a 
house in England, and you are all to :o to him 
by the next steamer, I am to go with you, and the 
servants. To get the Saturday steamer, we 
must leave on the early train to-morrow. I 
think we can accomplish it. ” 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 185 

The children, screaming with delight, rushed 
to the house. Foster, the hired man, equal to 
any emergency, worked all night, and in the 
morning the low, red house, which had sheltered 
the little brood for three months, was empty. 
Except that they were many dollars richer, the 
villagers could hardly realize the Farnsleighs 
had been there. They left as mysteriously as 
they came. 

When Mike ran down the track the next 
afternoon, and stood by the open gate under 
the syringa-bush, he found the doors and wind- 
dows closed. Had they gone without a word 
to him or a thought of him ? 

The bitter tears welled to his eyes, and he 
threw himself upon the deserted doorstep, where 
Charlotte s wilted flowers lay in the sun. 

Then a ray of comfort came. Janet, who 
delighted in mysteries, had placed a box in a 
clump of bushes, which the children used as a 
post-oflSce. They might have written! 


186 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 

Mike ran to the place. Under the box stood 
Charlotte’s drum, and upon it was a book which 
Janet had left him. In the box were two little 
notes, tear-stained and breathing remembrance. 

“We will never forget you, Mike,” wrote 
Janet, “and when the war is over and we go 
home, I will tell mamma what you did for us 
and our soldiers, and coax her to have you come 
to South Carolina. You’ll come, won’t you 

“‘Come,’ is it!” said Mike aloud, in his 
delight. “It’s over land and sea I’d go to meet 
thim. I’ll just be patient.” 

With his precious drum and book, and more 
precious notes, he turned sadly away from the 
empty doorstep, softly whistling “When this 
cruel war is over. ” 

Four years later a happy and prosperous 
family gathered around the dinner-table at the 
old home on the Ashley. The girls were beside 
their mother, who, with recovered health and 


COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 187 

happiness, bloomed like a Christmas rose. 
Uncle Paul Dunwoodie, strong and handsome, 
sat with his Northern bride on one side, and 
Charlotte on the other. Janet, grown half a 
head taller, and with more color in her pale face, 
was between her father and Mr. Rawson. 

Mike Boyle, who had just been in, had proved 
just the man to superintend the work of the freed 
black people upon the plantation. He was so 
changed that, but for the stiff red hair, no one 
would have recognized him. 

The silver cup shone bravelv in front of 
Charlotte’s place. 

‘‘Ah!” said Uncle Paul, “I can never see that 
cup without my heart beating faster! It seems 
too good for common use — something almost 
sacred. I propose that we have this inscription 
put on the bottom: ‘This cup, and the hope 
that went with it, saved a desperate man from 
death,’ and that we use it only on festival oc- 
casions as a ‘loving cup!’” 


188 COMMUNICATING WITH THE ENEMY 


“It all seems like a bad dream, dear,’’ said Mr. 
Famsleigh; “all the separation and pain and 
terror. ” 

“Yes,” said her husband; “that’s the best 
way to think of it — ^as a dreadful nightmare, 
that had to come, but from which, thank God! 
the coimtry has awakened. ” 






















